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my wife miscarried in the bathroom. I mopped up the blood myself, used a whole tub of Lysol Wipes, and now it feels like we live in a morgue.
It never once crossed his mind that he was depressed, too, that he had also lost a child.
He didn’t feel they had lost a baby; it had been stolen from them, along with their daydreams, their whole idea of the future.
The universe had settled into the business of taking things away from him: the baby, his simple married happiness, the sensual enjoyment he took from the smell of pines.
