After Anabelle

What did you buy your daughter for her birthday this year? 

I bet it wasn't pink garden lanterns and flowers. 

That is what we've bought our daughter for her third birthday tomorrow. 

I didn't want to get up this morning. My eyes didn't want to open. Not because I was tired, or had a bad nights sleep, but because my heart is so heavy with grief and hurt. Because I didn't want to have to face today. Hurt. Today isn't fair, tomorrow isn't fair, the day after that isn't fair. None of this is fair. Why is my daughter dead? After three years I know that today, the day before, will be harder than tomorrow. I know that the day after will be harder too. I know the lows will hit either side of the 'big' day. Knowing doesn't stop the sheer pain though. 

Raw. Reliving. This time three years ago I was finally in labour after five days of trying to get me there. Anabelle was on her way. From waters breaking to her being born took five hours and eight minutes.  Those eight minutes taking her into the next day just after midnight. 

Three years later I'm not wrapping birthday presents in pink paper like I should be. Instead I'm lighting candles and making pink decorations to pretty her grave with. 

And I'm so angry. Because this isn't the way it should be. Why us. Why her. 

Three years. 

Being three should be about starting nursery class at school. 

Being three should be about a Disney Princess obsession. 

Being three should be about loving to dress up and discovering role play. 

Being three should be about learning numbers and letters and how to write her name.

Being three should be about being a threenager. 

Being three shouldn't be this. 

Having a little girl shouldn't be like this, because I don't really have her at all.