I drive past your house. Nowdays, its an automatic, unconscious thing- up the hill, looking down on the sweping ocean.

The ache in my heart, the drop in my stomach, it is the same every time. I cannot tear my eyes away, slowly crawling past, a million thoughts in my head.

Gone is the neat and tidy yard, the clean facade’ of a happily married, hard working couple.

In its place, since you moved away, children’s toys lie, scattered across the lawn, strewn throughout the backyard. Shoes. Chaos.

Its is the home of a family. ‘It should have been you’ is the thought that makes me die a little inside.

The excitment of a pregnancy, the fear and dreams of the future. This all took place within your house.

Just like the subsequent pain and loss of this precious being, miscarriage devestating your life, as well as that of your husband’s. He watches you, not being able to help.

You move on, that spare room that should have been a nursery, it mocks you.

You do not know that I drive past to check that you are still okay, still functioning, to reassure myself, to settle ‘that’ feeling.

A for sale sign makes me slam on the brakes as I drive past your house one afternoon.

I cry.

You leave town.

That house- your house- now belongs to a young family, the family that should have been yours, a home, not just your house.