To say things had been difficult since you lost the baby was an understatement. You’d spent the last 6 months planning and thinking about this little life and while you weren’t looking…it had disappeared.
Kevin dove right back into life like nothing had happened. You knew it was his way of coping, but it bothered you. How could he just pretend that you hadn’t lost a child? You were jealous, too. You wished you could forget about it all. Forget about losing the baby, forget about loving it. But you couldn’t. And that left an unbridgeable gap between you and your husband.
It was a Sunday night. You always stayed home and had dinner together on Sundays. He was still out with the guys, but you were starting dinner. Putting spaghetti on to boil.
You were setting the table when you heard him come home.
“Hello beautiful,” he came in, throwing his jacket on a chair by the door.
“Hey,” you said in the cold voice that had been typical of you lately.
“How was your day?” he tried to ignore the sharpness of your tone.
“Fine,” you didn’t offer anything more.
“That’s good I guess,” he watched you set the table, “Do you need help?”
“Nope.”
“Alright, then,” he stopped trying to make conversation.
Dinner was just as difficult. He tried to talk, but you shut him down. Eventually it got to him.
“Y/N, what the hell is wrong?” he rubbed his temple with one hand.
You shot him a look, “Nothing.”
He took a deep breath, “We have to talk about this.”
“Clearly we don’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
You glared at the wall next to you, “How can you just act like nothing happened?” you were quiet.
“Y/N, I’m no–”
“Do you even care Kevin? Do you even understand what I’m going through right now? I lost my fucking baby,” the words flew off your mouth like bullets. You wished you could take them back as soon as they left your lips.
He looked up at you and you could see the anger in his eyes, but he just looked back down, bringing his hands to his face, “That was my baby, too, Y/N. He might’ve been inside you, but he was mine, too.”
You felt your stomach drop, “Kevin, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said quietly.
“No it isn’t,” you ran your hand through your hair, “I forget sometimes that I’m not the only one who lost him.”
He just stared at his plate.
“I love you,” you said so quietly it was nearly a whisper.
He didn’t say anything for a few moments and you felt your eyes begin to hurt from impending tears.
“I love you, too,” he finally responded, “We can get through it, okay? This isn’t going to tear us apart.”
“No, it isn’t,” you agreed.
He stood to clear his plate but you got up quickly and stopped him, wrapping your arms around his waist and burying your face in his shoulder.
He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, “Everything will get better. I promise. I don’t care if you don’t want another baby, I don’t care if you hate me for the way I’ve been ignoring this. I’m going to make this better. I’m going to make you happy.”
That’s when you started to cry. But this time, it wasn’t because you were sad. It was because for the first time in weeks, you felt hope. Even if it was only a little bit, it was there and that was all you needed.
