I'm reading a book right now, a new book. A book that I had no idea would affect me. But it turns out to be a book about a woman who lost her baby girl. Different circumstances, but they don't have to be mine to hurt. Her pain makes me look at mine. She wonders what her daughter would look like "at this age". Why don't I do that? Oh, I know why I don't do it, but I need to think about it. Not letting myself think about it is what makes her feel so far away. I don't let myself think about it because it hurts. It hurts. Would she have brown eyes like me, or blue eyes like her daddy? Would her hair be brown like her sister's, or blond like her cousin's? Questions like that are enough to keep pregnant women up at night. And it's worse when you will never know.

Last weekend, we went to a barbecue. There was a little girl there, whose mommy was pregnant with her when I was pregnant with Charlotte. This beautiful little girl and Sophia became instant friends. They held hands as they ran around playing in the yard. They giggled, they hugged. I kept looking at her and thinking, she could be Charlotte. She could be. It was a tough night. Because I can't very well tell anyone where why I'm standing against the wall holding my breath. Crazy person. I feel like I'm always the crazy person in the room, whether anyone notices, or not. Because I know what's running in my head. And people think I'm anti social. Or bitchy. But I'm just trying to hold the crazy in. It's not my party, and I can't cry here.