I was out yesterday and there was a woman walking around with her baby girl asleep in a sling. The baby was probably about three months old, and was chubby and pink and beautiful. I had to force myself to not stare at them the whole time we were there. My eyes kept being drawn to this woman’s baby and I was hoping that she wouldn’t notice. Every time I looked I’d tell myself that I had to stop or I was going to end up crying and really freaking the lady out.

I was so jealous of this woman with her perfect baby. What about my baby? I want my baby back. I want my baby to get chubby. I want to take my baby out and know that strangers are admiring her. I want to walk around with my baby in a sling. I want to glance down at my baby’s sweet sleeping face. I want to be able to whine about how difficult it is to get anything done while taking care of my baby.

I was terrified this lady would see my desperate hunger each time I looked at her child. I am so consumed by my grief that it feels like it must be radiating out of me. It seems that it is so huge and monstrous that other people must be able to see the pain that is oozing out of my every pore. It must show on my face that my heart is broken and bleeding. It must be obvious to everyone that my precious Eliana has died.

But it’s not. It’s not obvious at all. I’m just the creepy woman who wouldn’t stop staring at the baby, the woman silently screaming over invisible wounds.

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