Comma

I'd never planned for this you know.

That's what you;d told me the day you'd found out that you were carrying a tiny being inside of you.

A bit of me and a bit of you, equaling a whole other person.

So tiny and fragile, only the size of a comma.

And a comma is what you used when telling me that you were going to dispose of the fetus.

I want him comma but I'd never planned for this you know.

I begged you:

Don't do it.

I'll help.

I'll stay.

He is loved.

But you'd only wave one hand while unconsciously placing the other over your flat belly.

We can't, you'd said. We're to young comma immature comma financially insecure comma comma comma comma.

Excuses and commas became your main defense, and they became the thing that I hated most.

Until one day.

I'll never forget when you became the thing that I hated most.

You walked through the door, pale as a ghost and as scared as the person who had just seen one. You looked like a child yourself.

You looked at me and wrapped your arms around yourself almost defensively.

It was the right thing to do comma we're doing the responsible thing.

But all I could see was the woman who murdered a small part of me, who murdered my unborn son.

You hugged yourself tighter and I watched as your face crumpled just before your body did, and inside me there was nothing was nothing.

No pity, no love, just nothing.

I walked out that day and left you laying broken on the floor, and until today, seeing your face in the obituaries, I had never thought any more of you.

Take care of our son up there.

I'll join him one day.