We simply stayed there.
A week later, Robert and I sat outside our first grief-counseling appointment.
He looked at me.
“Ready?”
“No.”
He gave me a tired little smile.
“Me neither.”
I reached for his hand.
“Good.”
He looked at me.
“Then we can stop pretending we have to be.”
Together, we walked inside.
That evening, I stopped outside Claudia’s nursery.
For two weeks, I had passed the closed door.
This time, I opened it.
The pale yellow walls remained exactly as we’d left them.
The crib stood beneath the window.
Willie’s stuffed rabbit waited on the shelf.
My chest tightened as I stepped inside.
Then I heard footsteps behind me.
Willie appeared with his money jar.
“Mom?”
He looked at the rabbit.
Then down at the jar.
He picked up the stuffed rabbit.
“Can Claudia still keep him?”
My eyes filled.
“Yes, she can.”
I placed Claudia’s footprint card beside the rabbit.
Willie slipped his hand into mine.
For the first time in two weeks, I left the nursery door open.
I stood there with my son, surrounded by everything we had prepared for a baby who never got to grow up.
The grief remained.
So did the anger.
So did the questions.
But Claudia remained too.
Not alive the way we had wanted.
Not coming home.
But real.
Loved.
Remembered.
And finally, no longer hidden behind a closed door.
