I find it hard to believe at first because I don't feel any different. But then days go by and I begin to feel a buzz around my edges. I realize that I, through no conscious effort of my own, am slowly building another person. My husband and I compare bellies in the mirror every night. I didn't think it was possible, but I enjoy being pregnant.
If I knew someone who had suffered the loss of their teenage child, I would never say, "I'm sorry for the loss of your teenager." What a terrible thing to say, right? I, in no way, want to sound like I did not appreciate the love that other people gave me, but I do want to educate on the respectful way to speak to a parent after they suffer the loss of a very young child.
I see the updates. I see the newly posted pictures of a growing belly. I see the pictures of a nursery that was tirelessly decorated. I have the same pictures. But you'll never see them. It's not because I'm ashamed of my belly or because I'm an awful painter or decorator. It's because I didn't get the happy ending.