At eight months pregnant, I learned that my unborn daughter’s heart had stopped beating. I begged my husband to come to the hospital, but he chose my sister’s wedding rehearsal over watching me deliver our lifeless baby. Three days later, he returned with my entire family and an outrageous demand, never imagining that my answer would leave every one of them speechless.

I returned home on the third day after Lily was born.

The house looked exactly as it had before I went to the hospital. The kitchen calendar still displayed the week of the wedding. A small whiteboard on the refrigerator listed the final nursery preparations.

At the bottom, in Owen's handwriting, were the words:

Pick up Lily's rocking chair.

I stood in front of it for a long time.

Rachel helped me upstairs. She had insisted on staying until I felt comfortable, but I knew she had work and a life beyond my grief.

“You can call me anytime,” she said.

“I know.”

“Even at three in the morning.”

I hugged her.

When she left, I sat on the nursery floor.

The crib stood against the wall, painted pale pink. A little wooden sign above it read LILY.

Her clothes were arranged by size. The stuffed rabbit sat in the corner of the crib, waiting for a baby who would never reach for it.

I picked it up.

Then I heard the front door open.

Owen's voice carried through the house.

“Natalie?”

I didn't answer.

He appeared in the nursery doorway wearing a gray suit.

Behind him stood my mother, my father, Brooke, and her new husband, Ethan.

All four of them looked at me as if they had come to negotiate something.

Brooke held a bouquet of flowers.

“Nat,” she said softly. “We wanted to see you.”

I stood slowly.

“Why are you all here?”

Owen stepped forward.

“We need to discuss something.”

I looked at the people behind him.

“Now?”

“It's important.”

My father cleared his throat.

“Let's all sit down.”

I didn't move.

Brooke placed the flowers on the dresser.

“First, I want you to know how sorry I am about Lily.”

I looked at her.

“Thank you.”

She glanced at Owen.

Then my mother spoke.

“We know the last few days have been difficult, but there are some practical matters we need to settle.”

I stared at her.

“Practical matters?”

Owen pulled a document folder from his briefcase.

“It's about the house.”

My heart began to pound.

“What about it?”

He opened the folder.

“Brooke and Ethan need somewhere to stay while their new house is being renovated. The apartment they planned to use fell through, and the hotel is getting expensive.”

I looked at my sister.

Then at the nursery.

“You want them to stay here?”

“Just temporarily,” my mother said. “You have more space than they do.”

I looked at Owen.

“And what does that have to do with the documents?”

He slid a paper toward me.

“Brooke and Ethan want to move into the master bedroom for a few months. We thought you could stay with your parents until you're feeling better.”

For several seconds, I couldn't speak.

They wanted me out of my own home.

Three days after I had delivered my dead daughter.

My father shifted uncomfortably.