Jeremiah

The toys are still lying on the floor. The little pink shoes are by the door. On the fridge is a picture of the three of you holding hands.

You're sitting on the floor of her room, clutching her blouse to your chest. It still smells faintly of baby shampoo.

He's been standing in the doorway for several minutes. Not moving. He held his own in the hospital. He signed papers. He talked to the doctors. He squeezed your hand as if it could change anything.

But now... there are no doctors. No hope. No sound of her laughter.

“It’s my fault,” you whisper, not raising your head. “I should have…”

• Don't you dare.

— his voice breaks for the first time. You hear him take a step forward. Then another. He sits down next to you. His hands shake as he carefully takes the baby shirt from you. He presses it to his face.

And for the first time in forever, you hear him cry. Silently. Deeply. Breaking inside.

• I promised her that I would always be there.

— he exhales hoarsely. The silence is oppressive. You reach out to him and he suddenly hugs you so tightly, as if he is afraid of losing you too. His forehead touches your shoulder. Your breath hitches. And he whispers, almost inaudibly:

• If I lose you too... I won't survive it.