My little girl

December 19, 2009

On Thursday I was at a client's home doing a home inspection as part of my work. One of the little girls sat on a couch opposite me and showed me her Build-A-Bear. I told her how much I liked it and asked her where she got it. She told me and then, looking me straight in the face, her head tilted: "Do you have a little girl?"

I froze for a moment. I sped through an internal dialogue: What do I say to this child? "None living?" No. I can't say that to a child. Adults, yes. Children, no. "Yes?" And then she'll ask me how old she is. I can't do that. Kids know when you're not telling them everything. I won't have any credibility with her.

"No," I finally sputtered out and I felt the heat rise around my neck. Every time I answer that question with a "no," I feel as though I'm betraying a huge part of myself. But I don't know what else to do. My adrenaline was pumping and I wanted to sob. But I didn't. I fumbled through some questions, trying to track what was being said around me, thankful for my colleague who stepped in and asked questions too until I could gain my footing again.

It wasn't until I got to my car to drive home that I began to sob.

The previous Saturday night we were driving back from Casa Grande after spending an evening with Jeremy's parents and sister, brother-in-law and his mother too. It was dark as we headed home. Jeremy and I were quiet and, I swear I wasn't hallucinating, but I thought Harper was in the back seat in her car seat. I thought she had just kissed her auntie and uncle and grandma and grandpa goodbye. I thought I had grabbed her diaper bag as Jeremy carried her in his arms to the car and fastened her in to her seat and she had fallen asleep. It was what should have been. I actually turned to look at our empty back seat to make sure that what I was dreaming was not true. It wasn't.