There was no name, no cradle,
no room prepared with colors of joy—
just a silence that filled the corners of my soul
where laughter was supposed to grow.
It happened quietly,
like the way winter sneaks into fall—
a life undone before it began,
and a father made without a child.
I wept, but not where the world could see.
Men like me are told to be strong—
to hold our partners while our own bones break,
to stay silent while grief eats the lining of our hearts.
I watched the light fade from her eyes,
and then, from mine.
But where she turned outward,
I turned inward—
into the cavern of what could’ve been.
They told me to “be strong,”
to be her rock,
but never asked how much pressure it takes
to crack stone from the inside.
I carried two hearts that month—
mine, and the one that never got to beat.
And though no one saw the second one,
I still feel it when the nights are quiet,
when the world thinks I’ve moved on.
But I haven’t moved on.
I’ve moved through.
This grief,
this ghost of a future,
this sacred, wordless ache—
it made a man out of me.
Not because I conquered it,
but because I learned to hold it
without letting it destroy me.