My name is Oakley, and six months ago, I lost my baby at 16 weeks. People never tell you what that grief really feels like. It hollows you out from the inside. You walk around as if you’re wearing someone else’s skin, a shell of the person you used to be. Every pregnant woman you see on the street feels like a personal stab. And your own body… your body betrays you, holding onto a shadow of pregnancy even though there’s nothing left. Mason, my husband, was supposed to be

When I gave my widowed grandfather a pillow printed with my late grandmother’s smiling face, he cried. Big, shaking tears. He told me, “Sharon? Oh, sweetheart. This is the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever done for me. When I hold this, it’s like having Rose back in my arms again.” Six months later, I found that same pillow buried in the trash. Coffee grounds, moldy bread, tomato sauce—it was ruined. But that wasn’t even the worst thing I discovered that day. After Grandma Rose died, something inside Grandpa Bill broke.