took back everything. Every tiny onesie, every adorable pair of socks, every soft blanket that I had lovingly picked for my baby. I didn’t care that my hands were trembling or that tears blurred my vision—I just knew these weren’t hers to have. They were mine, and I wasn’t ready to let them go, no matter how much my husband thought it would “help.”
I stuffed everything into a bag and left the room. My sister-in-law saw me as I was walking out. “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice a mix of confusion and annoyance.
I turned to her, my voice steady despite the ache in my chest. “These were my daughter’s things. They’re not hand-me-downs. You had no right to them.”
She stammered, glancing toward the nursery. “But… your husband said it was okay. He thought—”
“He thought wrong,” I interrupted sharply. “If he wanted to bury my grief under someone else’s joy, that’s on him. But you—you could’ve asked me. You didn’t. And now, I’m taking back what’s mine.”
I walked out before she could respond, my heart heavy but resolute. Later that night, when my husband confronted me, I simply told him, “You don’t get to decide how I grieve. That was our daughter. Not a donation.”
For the first time in weeks, I felt a flicker of peace—because this was my way of holding on. And no one would take that away from me again.
