At night, missing a child feels heavier.
The daytime has noise and responsibilities and things that demand pieces of your attention.
But nighttime gets quiet and there’s nowhere for the missing to hide.
You can stare at the moon and wonder all of the things.
Is she somewhere beneath this same sky, somehow?
Can she see the moon too?
Does she know I’m looking for her?
Does she know how much I miss her?
Does she know how badly I still want to tell her goodnight?
Where does all this love go when I can’t snuggle her little body in our bed anymore at night?
Maybe that’s part of why the moon feels different after losing a child.
It’s so far away, but you can still see it.
You can’t reach it.
You can’t hold it.
You can only look up at it and ache for something that feels just as impossibly far away..
Nighttime leaves so much room for I wonder… and I wish… and what if…
And for the one thought underneath all of them:
I just want my baby back.
Written by Destiny Shay, mother to Chloe who was diagnosed with neuroblastoma. Destiny currently lives in Florida with her husband and Chloe’s three siblings.