Content Warning: This story contains strong language and themes of pregnancy loss. Reader discretion is advised.

Maggie shivers in my arms as she does every night, clawing at my hands until I hold her closer. I’m not sure if I hear the sound of our wedding bands clink or just feel it ringing through my bones like a tolling bell. Her fingers latch onto mine, pressing my hands into the soft skin of her stomach.

It scared me to touch her, but it scared her more if I didn’t. The only night I tried pulling away, she woke soon after, screaming from her nightmare. After hours of crying and hushing words and almost half a cup of chamomile tea, she was able to sleep again. I’ve held her every night since.

The slightly matted curls in her hair catch on my stubble and I breathe her in. There’s another head I want so badly to kiss, one I imagine crowned with a wispy cloud of blonde. I imagine wide brown eyes full of questions and wonder turning to me for answers and a smile, both of which I would never hesitate to give. And I see my sweet Maggie there, watching us as if we were the first sunrise to ever break the horizon. It’s something I can only see in my dreams.

It’s hard to leave my hands pinned to her stomach. I shouldn’t touch what I’ve already spoiled. She’s told me over and over it’s not my fault, and I can’t say I’ve seen a shred of blame in her eyes, but I’m half responsible at the very least. I rub my thumbs in small circles over her skin, wishing the changes in her body were just part of my imagination. But people had noticed or heard from those who had. Most of my coworkers had offered a sympathetic look, maybe a handshake or some flowers.

“Can’t sleep?” Maggie mumbles. I still my hands. “It’ll be alright.”

“I lost my job today.”

She rolls in my arms, pressing her cheek against my lips. “They didn’t fire you?”

“They had to.”

“Why?”

“I unhinged Tom’s jaw.”

“Why? Was it hanging crooked on his face?”

“No.” I hesitate. “He asked if I found it easier to have sex with you since you stopped looking so bloated.”

“That dick.” She pauses. “Did you answer him?”

“I told him you’ve never been easy. And then I nearly tore his jaw off.”

She shakes gently and I hear her laugh for the first time in almost two months. It warms me more than all the curves she has pressed into me.

“It’s not that funny—I have to get a new job now,” I say, though I smile. She quiets and raises my hand to her lips before returning me to her stomach. I stop smiling. “What are you going to do with me?”

“I don’t know.” She slips out of my arms and molds herself against me. “But fucking you til we get another one sounds like a good place to start.”

I hope to god she’s right.

For more on this story, I invite you to see what my classmates had to say about it in my post Best and Worst of Critique Comments #6. More modern-day reflections on craft and the process behind writing this piece are in Reflections on Writing “A Sleepless Night.”

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