They call it the “most wonderful time of the year,” a season of warmth, flickering candles, and the soft promise of new beginnings.
But as I stood on the balcony of our fifth-floor apartment at Skyline Heights in Denver, the air felt like a whetted blade against my skin.
I was seven months pregnant, my body a heavy, awkward vessel for a life I already loved more than my own.
My hand rested habitually on the swell of my stomach, feeling the rhythmic, comforting stirrings of the boy we had planned to name Leo.