Three weeks after burying my newborn son, I gave away everything I’d bought for him to a desperate mother with a baby. For the first time since his death, I slept through the night. But before sunrise, my lawn was covered with dozens of baby strollers—and what waited inside them made no sense at all.
Morning sun filtered through the dusty blinds of Noah’s nursery, laying long, pale stripes across a crib that had never held him.
I stood in the doorway, unable to step inside, unable to walk away.
Three weeks had passed since my little boy died in the hospital.
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