I imagine myself in a cage, huddled in the corner, tears slowly slipping down my cheeks.
Perhaps I am in the zoo or a museum.
A little girl walks by with her mother, points a chubby finger at me and asks, "Why is that woman crying, Mommy?"
Her mother pauses, reads the sign in front of my cage and sadly shakes her head. "Something awful happened to that woman."
"What happened, Mommy? What was so awful?"
"Who is Hope, Mommy?"
"Not who, Sweetheart, hope is a what. It is the most important feeling to a woman and when it dies. . . Well, there is nothing left."
13 DPO. BFN.
Hope has died.