Life is not how I imagined it would be.
I shouldn't have the luxury of resting in bed, trying to fight off a cold that hasn't yet made up its mind whether it will stay or not. I should be up, looking after an eight month old. But I'm not.
I shouldn't dread meeting new people, in case they ask if this pregnancy is my first. I shouldn't feel awkward when answering truthfully, but then again, people shouldn't back away when I tell them about Ariella.
I shouldn't be uncomfortable at larger gatherings, but people's silence regarding Ariella is deafening.
I shouldn't be planning how to capture my grief when on holidays for a week; I should be excitedly looking forward to introducing Ariella to a great friend of ours. But I'm not.
I shouldn't have to go to the cemetery to visit our girl. But I do.
Eight months on and I miss her more than ever.
Life shouldn't be so hard. But it is.