One day she decided to go into the room. She sat on the floor, leaning against the crib, and for the first time she cried without trying to be strong.
She cried for the illusion, for the motherhood she imagined, for the love she had given to someone who never existed, but who was real to her.
That was the beginning of something different. Not immediate healing, but honesty with herself, accepting that she had lost something, even if it wasn’t tangible.
She began attending therapy. At first with resistance, then with curiosity, and finally with a deep need to understand herself without judgment.
Her therapist didn’t try to correct her. She just listened. And for the first time, she didn’t have to justify why she had believed so intensely.
She learned new words: symbolic grief, invisible loss, unfulfilled motherhood. Concepts that explained a pain that society didn’t know how to name.
Over time, she stopped seeing herself as naive. She understood that her desire was not weakness, but an extreme form of love waiting for a place to exist.
Her body also began to change. The scars healed slowly, reminding her every day that she had been close to losing more than just a dream.
She started walking every morning. At first, it was a medical requirement, but later it was because the movement gave her back a minimal sense of control.
On those walks I observed details I had previously ignored: the sound of birds, the light filtering through the trees, life continuing without permission.
