Earnest Hemingway once wrote, “for sale: baby shoes, never worn.” So as I sat here in the middle of the room that once was: formerly pink and frilly, stuffed animals lining the walls, Ella the Elephant books sitting on the bookshelf waiting and wanting to be read, I thought about baby shoes.
We sat there, together, dreaming about the life wanted; adopting a perfect child, from a perfect mother, perfectly primed to fit into this family, free to be whoever they chose to be. We knew it was to be a girl. Our perfect little baby girl.
I bit my lip trying to hold back the tears as we packed everything away. The crib, changing table, shelving. It all went into various boxes and bins.
The words echoed like part of my conscience in my head… miscarriage… miscarriage… miscarriage… only God knows what that mother was going through. That perfect little baby… draining… no more. Kerry looked at me with sadness piercing her eyes as she packed up the last “Ella the Elephant” book. There would be no Ella… but we needed this moment, alone, together, as partners. Two women grieving together at the loss of their daughter. It was new and completely unreal.
Now. Now the room was empty. Pink and empty. Except for a single pair of baby shoes, never worn, sitting in the closet.