Baby

Anika's hands trembled uncontrollably as she looked at the small urn in front of her. Her legs gave way completely, a sense of weight settling in her chest, and the pain, raw like that first day, along with the memories, hit her abruptly. She carefully took the urn, it was light, perhaps too light, but she cradled it against her chest as tears fell down her cheeks, and a cry of pain escaped her lips.

"My baby," she cried as she kissed the lid of the urn, while memories forcefully invaded her. For years, she had done everything possible to push away the pain, to hide it in the deepest part of her mind, just like the things Mark had done to her, deceiving herself and forcing herself to remember only what was necessary to not lose herself in madness, in the pain that now invaded her. The memory of her little son and what she had suffered to bring him into the world came rushing back. Closing her eyes, she thought of the feeling of holding him in her arms, the adorable laughter she had on