The day I never knew you is one of the strangest of my life. It started with the tremor of excitement I had felt every morning since I imagined your presence from the changes in my body. I bathed your brother—he was two—then took my own quick bath listening to him play. Your father had left early on a short trip. It was after cereal and toast that I felt the first twinge so subtle I thought I had lifted heavy groceries or maybe mopped too much the day before. Then the blood. I begged my body to stop; to calm; to become the cradle of ribs and pelvis a mother was meant to rock. My neighbor wasn’t home. The one on the other side either. I was afraid to drive. I wondered if I was dying. Then the knock like a hopeful, audible heartbeat. Two women stood on my porch with baskets of gospel pamphlets. Over those next hours, they drove to Emergency, tended my toddler, brought me home empty and stayed. Never once did they tell me about god. Trio of mothers, we spoke only the name I gave the bright evidence of your life.