She didn’t “move on;” she moved forward, keeping baby Dylan in her heart while Echo lit the way. It was back in 2021 that the couple agreed to expand their family. She had pictured motherhood for years and hoped for a positive test by their first anniversary at the end of June. One Friday night, she was too excited to sleep, so Dylan suggested she test before bed. In their tiny apartment bathroom, they flipped the stick together. It was positive. She snapped a quiet keepsake selfie captioned “We’re pregnant.” Dylan kissed her belly goodnight. Sleep didn’t come, but joy did.
They spent Valentine’s weekend celebrating the new life already reshaping their days. She’d calculated a late-October due date, nearly finished a registry by five weeks, told both sets of parents (his first time becoming grandparents), and even found holiday outfits on clearance for the little one. Aside from fatigue and a big appetite, she felt fine and joked that such an easy start meant they might be having a boy. They tossed around ocean-themed names because both loved the sea. On March 2, after tacos and laughter, she spotted blood before bed. Friends urged rest and a call to the doctor in the morning. By dawn, the bleeding had eased, and she tried to calm herself: early spotting can happen.
But at work, it returned, heavier. She went home. Cramps tightened into waves while she and Dylan played Battleship to pass the time. After a strong contraction, she felt a sudden rush. In the bathroom, she saw what no parent wants to see: a tiny seven-week pregnancy still in its sac. Shock, disbelief, a photo sent to the nurse, the quiet confirmation, she had miscarried. The bathroom that held their first joy now held their first deep sorrow. The family brought food and tea. A friend texted that all the baby had known was warmth and love. It cut through the noise. The next day, they found a private hot tub to sit together; it was a slight relief that also hurt, because she wouldn’t have used a hot tub if she were still pregnant. She decided she would not keep silent.
Three days later, she shared their loss online. Seven weeks weren’t long enough, but those weeks made her a mother. Messages poured in from people with their stories, meals arrived, keepsakes appeared on the doorstep, and grief became a circle instead of a corner. Still, she tried to outrun the pain. She told herself it was “early,” cried for a week, then buried the rest. Some days she functioned; others, she couldn’t get out of bed. The ache to be pregnant again sat beside anger, numbness, and jealousy she didn’t want to feel. Eventually, she admitted that pushing grief down only made it leak out sideways.
A book, Grieving the Child I Never Knew, helped her see she was trying to control what couldn’t be controlled, and suggested naming the baby. She searched sea names and kept seeing “Dylan,” which means “son of the sea.” It was her husband’s name; she kept skipping it until she told him. His eyes filled. They chose to honor their child as baby Dylan.
Mother’s Day came with an empty womb and a whole ache. She wrote about grieving not only a baby but also the life that would have followed: the tiny seasonal outfits now boxed away, the fall memories that wouldn’t happen, and the dad she knew Dylan would have been. She learned there was room for joy for others and sorrow for herself, and that her grief didn’t need to match anyone else’s. Dylan stayed steady, listening, holding her through the smallest triggers and the biggest waves.
Months later, near their anniversary again, a new test turned positive. Their rainbow had arrived. They named their daughter Echo Fidel, “echoes faithfulness,” a reminder that light can break through dark skies. Echo didn’t replace the baby they lost; nothing could. But she brought laughter back into rooms that had gone quiet. Grief still visits at unexpected times, and love makes space for it. She carries both children: one in her heart, one in her arms.
