My mother in law says it is also in the other breast. Our delusions of in situ hiccups, an embarrassing inconvenience before vacation, dashed. She wonders about my marriage, the kids, her voice bloated with memory, her own buried ache. My husband is angry at work. This is mine to hold. I can feel her expanding inside me, hope and fear dividing like malignant cells. When it is big enough she will kick. I will ask my husband to touch my belly, “can you feel her?” He will nod and smile, take his hand back. She will start smoking again, because fuck it… all those years wasted, avoiding. Avoiding. One day soon I will deliver her, wild and broken, awake. She will cradle in the crux of my arm until she falls asleep, her eyes open and knowing, before they close themselves to the world, and I swallow the dust of her whole.

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