For a brief moment, we were a family of four.
It was a secret we held close, a fleeting reality that lived vividly in our minds. You were there, just a whisper of a presence.
The second faint line on the test—it was unmistakable. The doctor noticed it, and so did I (I saw you). You existed, albeit as more of a flickering shadow. Those few days were so special, weren’t they? The planning, the dreaming, the cautious joy. We were aware it was too soon to let our guard down, knowing the faint line could vanish just as quickly as it had appeared. Yet, how could we not let our hopes rise?
The last weekend of summer became our only weekend with you, while your big brother remained blissfully unaware. I felt the presence of both my children—one holding my hand and the other, an unknown yet cherished possibility still.
And then just like that, you were gone.
We spent that last weekend at Story Land, and it was wonderful. In those early days, we’re often a part of the stories our parents weave around us, aren’t we? In another time, we wouldn’t have even known of your existence; there would have been no early tests, no tears, just silence.
But I’m grateful we knew you.
The last weekend of summer—our only weekend together—was perfect.