Just pictures. His face. Those tiny, perfect toes and soft legs.
He's in a case. On a shelf.
There should be a swing in this corner.
My kitchen counter should be a mess with bottles and nipples. Dishes waiting to be washed. Laundry - piles and piles of laundry - sitting in a heap by the washer and dryer.
Instead, everything is clean and neat. Too neat. Too normal.
The sadness swells and that sick feeling like I've been punched in the stomach creeps back inside of me. And I look at his pictures for something - anything - I haven't seen before.
