On Christmas Eve, we take the children to the museum, observing stationary bodies with skin peeled back, muscles and veins on display. We see inside ourselves, and she points to a uterus and says, Kids, look! Your first home, and we joke, Also your first eviction notice. We come to a room draped in black, slightly out of view stating Content Warning: not suitable for everyone. The children and I rush in, my sister follows cautiously. Preserved in glass longer than jars, are fetuses in varying stages of development. Translucent in one, fingers and toes like fins. Larger at twenty-four weeks, still no skin. My sister has suffered a miscarriage, I played God, and we bled together. Her footsteps slow as she approaches the display, quietly, she whispers, They told me it was a baby.