The saddest possible thing.

The saddest possible thing is that this little shoe is bigger than my baby ever was, although they we’re meant to wear it. 

The saddest possible thing is that I only have one, their Daddy has the other.

The saddest possible thing is that I have had that shoe longer than I ever carried them, when I was supposed to keep them safe. Where they we’re supposed to be safe.

The saddest possible thing is that I have kissed this shoe more times than I can remember, more times than I kissed my baby, and every time I know that it is once more than never. 

I never kissed them. Never told them they were loved, until after they were gone. Didn’t really let myself love untill I knew I was loosing them, and even then tried to pretend like it never happened. 

The saddest possible thing is that I can’t propperly talk about it except on here. I can’t tell my mother, my father, my eldest closest sister. Can’t find the words, the strength, the courage. Can’t bear the looks. The confirmation of my mothers often voiced fear, of her disappointment, her incredulity. The shame.

Can’t bear the pitty, condolences, the ‘at leasts’. 

Because at the end of the day, I didn’t care about my education. About uni, careers, high earning, being stuck in one place. I didn’t care. Didn’t want it anymore. Tried to want it and failed. 

I wanted them. I didn’t want what I am supposed to want.

I still want that pregnancy. Despite it’s fears and limitations. Despite the fact every time we seem to sit down together now my family unknowingly reiterate the stab in the heart that is them telling me that I should be feeling lucky, how terrible it would be to be grandparents at the age they are. How they hope I get a degree, get a large pay packet. My mother tells me marriage is a trap.

How I am better than the girls I went to school with, how each girl who ever babysat me has one baby or more but a dead end job.

Yet I am not better than them. My mother is a grandmother already. The only difference between us now is that theirs lived. And I’m supposed to be greatful. 

I’m supposed to think it’s for the best. Not supposed to talk about it. I’m supposed to want something else. 

The saddest possible thing is that I have walked every step, and my mother never saw. Nobody noticed except to comment on my being over tetchy. The saddest possible thing is that the people I want most to turn to have made it so I dare not even try.