Grief, maybe. Loss has a smell, I think. Metallic and empty.
The fluorescent lights above my hospital bed felt cruelly bright. Too harsh. Too alive for a room where something had just died.
My body felt hollow. Not tired, not sore—just profoundly, devastatingly empty.
I didn’t need to ask the question. I already knew the answer before the nurse stepped into my line of vision.
Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her voice trembled when she finally spoke.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “We did everything we could.”
My baby was gone.
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