At the very end of the hall was the room we had designated as the nursery two years ago.

Before my miscarriage. Before the “episodes” began.

I hadn’t set foot in this room in over eighteen months.

I pushed the heavy oak door open, the hinges groaning softly in the quiet house.

The room was dark, the heavy drapes drawn tight against the afternoon sun.

Dust motes danced in the thin slivers of light that broke through the fabric.

The room was exactly as we had left it, filled with half-assembled furniture and unopened boxes.

A white wooden crib sat in the center of the room, looking like a skeleton in the gloom.

I walked inside, my heart thumping against my ribs.

I remembered Jared spending hours in here after the miscarriage, claiming he was “sorting things out.”

I smelled the faint, musty scent of stagnant air and old paint.

I walked over to the changing table, running my fingers through the thin layer of dust on the surface.

My hand brushed against a small, plastic baby monitor shaped like a yellow bear.