The ghost of the child I will never have weighs over my shoulders like a leaden mantle. Her little hands cling to my neck, tight enough to choke; her little feet dig into my hips, hard enough to bruise. She is hungry all the time, and steals my food if I am too slow to eat it, pulling half-chewed mouthfuls through my jaw and down her bottomless gullet. We share the same preference in milk—almond, with a spoonful of artifical strawberry powder—and she drinks it out of the back of my throat, leaving me thirstier than before. The ghost of the child I will never have is thankfully well-behaved. Quiet. Unassming. Easy to deal with, except for that insufferable hunger. When I do not make sure she is fed for too long, she starts crying. The ghost of the child I will never have is hard to deal with when she is crying. Wet, messy, loud. The salt dries sticky on the back of my neck. These days, the ghost of the child I will never have gets hungry faster. I do too. Every bite I take goes to her, for she will not take no for an answer. She will not take my screams for an answer. She will not take my shaking for an answer. She will not take my hits for an answer. I hate the ghost of the child I will never, ever have, and when I finally tell her this, she slips under my spine and curls into the aching empty pit of a belly that has never borne her. There, she says. It echoes. Will this be enough for us now?
