For the weekend we were a family of four.
It wasn’t for long, of course, and it was our secret. Your existence most alive in our heads.
But not entirely.
The second faint line—it was there. The doctor saw it. I saw it (you), too. You were there, little more than a shadow. But you existed. You were a flicker.
And those few days were nice, weren’t they? The planning. The imagining. The (guarded) celebrating. We always knew it was too early to really relax with you. We knew the faint line signaling your existence might just as easily be gone tomorrow. But oh, the hopes that come forward anyway. How can they not?
The last weekend of summer was the first and only weekend we had with you. Your brother joyfully oblivious.
I felt you both. A mother of two! My kids: one holding my hand, both holding my heart, and you, a great unknown still.
And then, just like that you were gone.
The last weekend of summer was the first and only weekend we had with you. We spent it at Story Land. I love that. At the beginning, in our earliest days, we’re all partly the story our parents tell themselves, aren’t we?
In another day and age we wouldn’t have even known you’d existed. There would have been no early test. There would have been no tears.
But I’m glad we knew.
The last weekend of summer—our only weekend together—was perfect.