A tiny hat.

And a hospital identification bracelet bearing the name I’d chosen months earlier.

*Lucy.*

I placed that bracelet in a little keepsake box beside my bed.

For years, I couldn’t bring myself to put it away.

Sometimes, late at night, I’d open the box and run my fingers over the faded plastic.

I’d imagine the girl Lucy might have become.

Her first steps.

Her first birthday.

Her first day of school.

I wondered whether she’d have inherited my dark curls or her father’s smile.

I imagined brushing her hair in the mornings and hearing her call me Mommy.

But those were only dreams.

Eventually, I returned to work.

I attended family gatherings.

I learned to smile when friends announced their pregnancies.

From the outside, I seemed to be moving forward.

Inside, part of me remained in that hospital room.

I never found the courage to try having another child.