My son is dead.
Somehow, everything comes back to these four words.
Eight days ago, I did not know I had a son. I had a baby - a much-wanted, hard-won baby. I had a growing belly and sore breasts and two drawers starting to fill with soft white towels and little white jumpsuits. I had dreams of the three of us, my husband and my baby and I, and the future we were going to map out together.
And then it all changed. The how is a story for another time; the why is something I may never be able to write. But it changed.
My son was born.
He died.
Nothing will ever be the same again.
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