Two lines.

Waiting for those two lines to appear reminded of when I was 10. Shaking a magic 8 ball tensely asking “when I grow up will I have kids?” The same sweaty palms a quarter century later gripping the test stick with the same hope as I waited for the answer to become clear.

Two lines!

Two lines appear. Lines that instantly made me a mother, lines that changed my life forever, lines that made someone else the center of my world.

And just as quickly as those lines appeared you were gone.

“Outlook not so good.”

You don’t get a hallmark card for a miscarriage.

“Better not tell you now.”

There are no showers thrown.

 “Cannot predict now.”

The guest list is a hope chest of baby names that’s been latch closed and pushed back into the back of the closet.

 “It is decidedly so.”

Everything happens for a reason they tell me. They tell me I can try again. They tell me all the things I can’t bare to hear. But it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to. You would cry too if it happened to you.

“ Reply hazy, try again.”