One month ago, at 3:17 AM, my daughter was stillborn, and another version of me came to be. I feel so very much older than I felt before. My therapist tells me I’m living my life in reverse. I think she’s right. I think I’m stuck in a moment before The Moment. So much has happened since then, but as I sit here staring at this screen, I can’t even think of one thing other than my daughter. Today, I stood in the same classroom where I first realised I might be pregnant, and my blood ran cold. It literally made me nauseous. And angry. I’m angry that the world went on without my daughter and terrified that she will somehow become an insignificant part of it. She’ll always be a significant part of who I am. She died before she truly lived, and that is the most unfair situation I can imagine. But she *was* significant. She *is* significant. She brought so much joy to my life and to the lives of my best friend and his mother. I remember feeling her kick for the very first time, and I remember the smile on my best friend’s mother’s face when *she* felt the baby kick on the side of my stomach. I read stories to my child, sang lullabies to her, and found myself subconsciously resting my hands on that not-so-little bump as it grew. Today, my arms have ached for her, and I’ve felt an empty, hollow space where she should be. I miss her more than I can say.