We painted the walls a soft green. Not as a trend or to be gender-neutral, but because it felt like hope. It reminded us of spring, new beginnings, and the gentle way you speak to a child.

The crib arrived in a flat box. We assembled it on a Sunday, fueled by a bottle of optimism. He followed the directions while I held the screws. We laughed when he accidentally attached the side rail backward, and then we cried when we finished. Because at that moment, it felt real.

We were ready, ready for midnight feedings, lullabies, endless laundry, and little socks that never stayed on. Ready to love someone who didn’t yet exist.

But they never came. Not in the first month, nor the third. Not after the vitamins, the charts, the ovulation sticks, the sterile intimacy, the hot tears, and the doctor visits. Not even with the well-meaning advice of “just relax” from those who didn’t understand.

We named them anyway…each “maybe-baby.” Each negative test felt like losing someone who almost was.

There was no funeral, no service, no obituary—just an empty room and a heart that continued beating.

No one mentions how it changes a couple. How hope can begin to rot if left unchecked. The way we stopped touching, not out of desire, but because it began to feel like a transaction, like a performance, a test we kept failing together.

Now, we navigate around that room. We vacuum its hallway, keep its window locked, and pass by it like a scar that remains unspoken.

Sometimes, I still crack the door open, just a little. Let the light in, let the grief breathe.

Because even though they never came home, that room still holds a version of me I find hard to release.

You don’t have to bury a child to grieve one…sometimes, the silence in the nursery is loud enough.