“It’s Not My Fault You Couldn’t Carry a Baby”
Halfway through the party, Victor cleared his throat and wrapped an arm around Violet.
“We’d love to show you all the nursery,” he announced.
The word hit me like a blow.
The nursery.
Guests murmured excitedly and headed upstairs. Someone brushed past me with a smile.
“Come on, Ruby!”
I followed on numb legs.
The room at the top of the stairs used to be my nursery:
- Walls painted a soft neutral cream “for any baby.”
- A crib I’d once built and then disassembled after the stillbirth.
- Tiny onesies I’d folded and then packed away because I couldn’t bear to see them.
I had locked that door after we lost our child. I couldn’t even glance at it without breaking.
Now it was wide open.
