Blame it on the shame Part 2

Chapter 25 (Lou-Lou)

I get up from the couch, throw a sweatshirt on, and pad downstairs to the front lobby.

When I walk outside the cool night air greets me and I close my eyes and soak it in.

After walking for a few minutes, I cross the street and reach my destination.

The heavy wooden door creaks as I open it and I breathe a sigh of relief.

I'm always afraid the church is going to come to its senses and start locking up at night, but luckily they haven't so far.

I've never been a religious person—but I like to come here in the wee hours of the morning since there's no one here to bother me.

Lord knows, I'm certainly not coming here seeking any kind of religious counseling or guidance.

I'm here for one thing and one thing only.

The first thing I do is walk over to the votive candles. I notice that only 5 are lit tonight. Last night there were 11.

I don't use the main candle to light mine like we're supposed to—instead I take out a pack of matches that I always keep with me.

I strike the match against the cardboard and watch the smoke rise.

Then I look for my row and my candle, which fortunately; hasn't been lit by someone else.

I choose the same candle every time—number 13.

The same numbered day my baby would have been born on.

I don't pray to a saint or any of that stuff when I light the candle. There's only one statement I make and it will never change, "I'm so sorry, Thumper."

Next, I walk over to 'the statue' as I've dubbed it. It's over toward the left side of the altar and to the back. After I make my way over to it, I plop down Indian style in front of it.

The first night I came here I couldn't even look at it, I remember being so jealous of that woman—Mary because she had something I would never have.

Her baby. In her arms.

Her presence doesn't bother me so much anymore, but I'm not here for her.

I focus on the infant in her arms and set the alarm on my phone.

I allow myself exactly 1 minute to grieve as a mother—but I forbid myself to cry.

I don't deserve to—because it was all my fault.

And his.

I stare at the infant and it all hits me in one big agonizing surge.

I'll never know what it feels like to hold my baby in my arms.

I'll never know if my baby was a boy or a girl.

I'll never know if my baby would have looked more like me or Ricardo.

I'll never hear my baby call me 'Mommy' and I'll never hear my baby tell me they love me.

I'll never witness my baby's first steps, my baby's first day of school, or the moment my baby takes their first breath.

Because my baby's dead.

Because I chose him.

I stand up and brush off my jeans. I cast one last glance at the statue and this time, my eyes fall on Mary. "I really hope you know how lucky you are."