Some days, she walked. Miles without a destination. Just pushing the stroller until the baby fell asleep and the weight of grief caught up to her somewhere between two avenues.
She’d sit there. Phone on do not disturb. Face bare. Stomach still soft from birth that hadn’t ended in life. Watching strangers rush by with lattes and briefcases, marveling at how the world kept spinning like nothing shattered.
Maybe that was the part that stung most.
The world kept moving. Fast and blind.
But Sabine didn’t know how to move with it.
One afternoon, Reeka called. Left a voicemail Sabine never answered. “Bine, I know you ain’t talkin’ to nobody and I’m not mad about that. You do what you need. Just wanted you to know I drove all the way there just to leave something at the door for you because I know you don’t want to see anyone right now. I love you. Always.”
Sabine opened the door and found a box wrapped in brown paper. Inside was a baby book. Handwritten letters from friends and family. A framed ultrasound photo she didn’t know they’d kept. Ariyah’s name spelled out in wooden letters painted gold and lavender.
She sat on the floor and cried for twenty-six minutes straight. She didn’t know what healing looked like. Didn’t trust it but she knew it wasn’t loud. It didn’t come with milestones or announcements. It came in sips. In choosing not to disappear.
In getting up. Again.
One night, long after Ade fell asleep, she stood in front of the bathroom mirror in nothing but her underwear, staring at the stretch marks on her belly. She ran a hand across the faint line down her center, the softened pouch beneath her navel.
The body that had birthed death.
Sabine didn’t hate it.
She just didn’t recognize it.
A knock came at the door.
“Bine?” Adair’s voice. When she didn’t answer, he opened it slowly. Shirtless. Eyes full of something she didn’t have the strength to name. “I just wanted to say goodnight.” She nodded once. “Do you need anything?”
“No.”
“Okay.” He didn’t move. She knew he wanted to say more. Maybe even reach for her but she couldn’t give him that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
As he turned to leave, she whispered, “she looked like you.”
He froze.
“She had your nose. Your ears. She had a dimple in her chin just like yours.”
Adair’s shoulders stiffened. He didn’t turn around. “I still see her sometimes,” he said, voice hoarse. “When I close my eyes. I wonder what color her eyes would’ve been. I wonder if she would’ve made you laugh the way Ade does…the way I used to.”
Sabine didn’t say anything in response and he said nothing more.
That night, they slept in separate rooms but they both cried facing the same wall.
THE NEXT MORNING…
Sabine made coffee. Black, no sugar—she made enough for two. A subtle peace offering to her husband. Adair blinked in surprise when she handed it to him. He didn’t ask what it meant.Didn’t ruin it by hoping.He just took the cup.
They didn’t talk about Ariyah that day.Or the nights Sabine still cried when no one was looking.Or the way they no longer shared a bed.
Instead, they made waffles.
Ade helped pour the batter. Got it everywhere.
They cleaned up together.
Sabine let herself laugh once when he got whipped cream on his nose.It wasn’t peace.It was just a start.