Producing milk for my dead baby, the cruelest joke ever played. A worse torture I can’t imagine. A constant reminder that Jacob couldn’t stay.
Like tears coming straight from my heart. A depressed, passive leak. Unable to accept his death. Unable to be more than weak.
Seeping love, liquid emotion. Proof of motherhood, at least in notion.
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article sponsered by Northern Michigan certified lactation consulting and Mother Hubbards Country Cupboard
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