You broke me down again. But I’m grateful, in a way. Janice loses the baby in the murky bathwater. My eyes swell. Harry comes back home.
Nelson, age five, asks, “Baby sick?”
Then the next day, “Is baby Becky dead?”
“Yes.” Harry answers.
And I’m useless for the rest of the day. Because I want a Janice. And a Nelson. And the bad times. Because you only know bad if most days are better. Good, even.
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