Maya sat on her bunk, staring at the calendar she’d marked on the wall with a pencil.
May 24th was circled. Andrea’s first birthday.
In three weeks, her daughter would turn one year old. Somewhere out there, if she was even alive, Andrea would be taking her first steps, saying her first words, growing into a little person.
And Maya was missing all of it.
Maya had tried not to think about the milestones. Tried not to imagine Andrea’s first smile, her first laugh, her first tooth. But as the date got closer, it was all Maya could think about.
One year ago, she’d been in labor. Scared and alone but also hopeful. She’d been about to meet her daughter. About to become a mother.
One year ago, she’d held Andrea in her arms and thought her life was beginning.
She’d had no idea it was ending
