So, imagine this. A nursery overflowing with possibilities. Maybe the walls are soft yellow. Maybe green, soothing like a quiet afternoon nap you never really get. Little shoes flung aside beside the door, half-hidden in chaos only a parent could love. Fridge art made with those chunky letter magnets that always fall off. There’s bedtime stories, Saturday morning cartoons, wobbly bike rides in that park you always walk past. Feels like such an ordinary parenthood daydream, right? But life, it threw a curveball—one that no glossy pamphlet mentioned. Minutes ticked away turning into months, then into years. Instead of cozy movie nights, you’re stuck flipping through magazines in cold, impersonal doctor’s offices. Tracking everything, timing every little thing, hopes pinned on those faint pink lines that never seem to appear. Grieving for someone who never was. And honestly, figuring out when that started is like trying to remember when you first realized your favorite show got canceled. Mourning a version of yourself, someone you wished to become but who won’t be. The kicker is, this grief? It's invisible. No one sees it. There are no rituals, no casseroles at your doorstep, no sympathy cards. You’re just carrying it. Smiling—though it's more of a grimace really—at gender reveal parties, pretending not to hear when colleagues chat about their second little one. Pretending it’s okay while inside, things are quietly—maybe loudly—falling apart.