By the time I had written the thank-you cards to our wedding guests,
I was pregnant.
By the time we went for our second ultrasound,
her heart had stopped beating.
By the time I took the tablet at home to flush my womb,
he was in shock.
We hadn’t waited the usual three months before announcing her.
Now my womb was empty again and we had to tell.
I shared the void with my girlfriends.
I was not alone.
They unhid what they had kept quiet.
Miscarriages.
Blood-drenched bed sheets.
Deceased fetuses.
I told myself my miscarriage was a practice run for my body;
no big deal.
It’s still my cover story.
18 years and three daughters later,
since Hong Kong, Lisbon, and Porto,
the thank-you cards sit unsent in the stationery cabinet.
