'Jelly Mother' by Jo Withers

At the party, my niece gives me a pink jelly baby.

I whisper thanks and turn away quickly, startled when I see it in my palm. The bunched-up limbs and over-sized head look like you did in the scan, plump and still. It has no heartbeat either, it doesn’t matter with them, with you it meant everything. I didn’t get to keep you, but I can hold this one. I cradle it across the lifeline on my palm, across the little notches that the fortune teller said meant I’d have three of you, two boys and a girl.

I close my fingers tightly around the shape of you, feel your soft body fill my hand. There is an ancient magic in your presence, suddenly I will never be alone again.

At the party I don’t avoid them like I used to. I sit in their exclusive group, lean against the cupboards in the kitchen, laugh as they lament the sleepless nights, the awful, screaming colic.

As I leave the party, I keep my fingers clasped around you, rock you softly in my lap as we sit together in the taxi. As I climb into bed that night, I whisper plans for picnics and park trips, sing lazy lullabies as we fall asleep.

In the morning, my first thought is of you, sleeping in my palm. I can still feel the reassurance of your body, such a tiny thing to fill so great a hole. But when I open my fingers the warmth has warped your shape so that only a small pink log remains, flat and featureless.

The familiar feelings surge in my stomach. I failed you. If I’d done things differently, you’d still be here.

I hold you for a long time then place you gently on the pillow. I reach up for the box on top of the wardrobe. I open the lid and place you on top of the scan photos, the hospital notes and the unworn baby grows.

I close the lid, hands empty once more.