Agonizing sympathy clutched me like claws. It hurt more than any wound I'd ever had.
Because I knew the pain twisting up her face and body all too well.
My eyes filled with tears so thick I couldn't see her anymore.
"Oh, dear," I chocked. "Oh, you poor, sweet thing."
Somehow, seeing me start to cry opened up the flood gates the rest of the way, for her she gave a half-choked wail.
"He was so pretty."
"I know."
"I tried so hard."
"Harder than you ever could. Harder than anyone."
She bent in half over my shoulder and let it out in long, unhindered noise. There was nothing beautiful or wonderful about the moans and mewls against my shoulder. I found myself echoing her and holding her tight.
"I know, I know," I cried. "I lost my baby boy too. My pregnancy had been so hard, I had been so sick."
"Oh no," she sobbed. "Not you too."
"Yes. He had the most perfect little feet. But he was dead before he was born."
"That's awful. That's so awful."