Nothing could be wrong in the world and such happiness I would find in his mere presence that every hardship I had once endured would melt away. He would be the imperfect reason.
But my dream burst in my hands, freezing my eyes and making all too obvious the crass injustice of the world in which we live. A world where hope dies inside you, leaving you in dark, barren unhappiness.
I should be worrying about party bags, or getting the cake just so. I should be singing and helping to blow out candles. This house should be filled with laughter, streamers all around, all for a boy with starlight in his eyes. This day should belong to his happiness. Instead, it belongs to my sorrow.
When I dreamed of being a mother, I wanted my child to always be full of wonder. I prayed he would always know joy. I wished that he would want for nothing, and I got my wish.
For he is dead, and the dead want for nothing.
Shame no one wished for me.