This weekend, I went to a hen party. It was fun, it was nice to get out. But as usual in these social situations, I met a couple of women I hadn't met before. So, chatting in the loo as you do, I was asked that question
"How many children do you have?"
And I gave my usual answer.
"I have had five but unfortunately my youngest died"
Because I can't leave you out. I know some bereaved parents cope by only mentioning their living children because they can't bear to have that conversation with every person they meet but I have never been able to do that.
The women were sorry. They apologised for bringing it up. But they hadn't done anything wrong. It was an ordinary question, the sort you'd ask anyone you met socially. Imagine if everyone was afraid to ask a normal question in case it hurt or offended.
I told them it was a good question to ask and sadly, it was the answer that was dreadful, not the question.
And it was no bad thing. It's not like they reminded me of my pain. You can't be reminded of something you haven't forgotten. Because I have never for a minute forgotten that I had you and never for a minute forgotten that I lost you. I think about you all day, every day. Your little soul is woven into the fabric of my being.
Children? I have five.
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