When you lose a child, the little things you do can sometimes become ritual. You have to do these things in order to go on, to survive your ordeal.
Almost everything in the house is a "last time."
We're about to head down to Springfield for a weekend trip and as I grabbed the camera and the charger I thought to myself, "The last time I used the charger, was in the hospital with Sawyer."
It happens almost constantly. The last time I wore this shirt I was pregnant. The last time we ate here I was pregnant. The last time I heard that song I was pregnant.
And it goes on and on. Every day.
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