My Little Garden of Lilies

A prayer answered, a beautiful longing that became real.

How would the face of a child born of love look like?

I had wished for you for many years, though with a quiet fear of everything that comes with having a baby.

But my desire—my longing—was greater. The yearning grew so strong that all I wanted was to hold you in my arms.

What would it feel like to touch you?

To feel your warmth?

What would you smell like?

How many times would I be bothered by your crying?

Or would I rush to calm you, because it would break me to see you suffer?

I don’t know exactly when it happened—when you began to grow inside me.

I only knew something felt different.

I was more irritable, less patient, quicker to anger.

Even our little dog began acting out, restless and mischievous.

Then suddenly, the nausea came at dawn.

I thought perhaps my pancreas was failing.

My mind swirled with anxious questions:

“Am I sick? Do I have something serious?”

But it was you, my tiny baby, already calling for attention.

Weeks passed until my mood became unbearable.

We took a home pregnancy test.

Both of us were tense, exhausted… and when we saw the result, we could hardly believe it.

We knew the possibility existed, but when it became real, it felt like a dream.

We could not believe that the miracle had finally come: a child.

A child longed for, cherished, and deeply loved.

Tears filled our eyes—laughter cutting through sobs of joy.

That is the most beautiful kind of crying one can ever know.

That night we kept the secret close to our hearts.

But we were no longer two.

That was the most beautiful truth: that night, three of us rested together in the same bed.

What a perfect, full night…

I had often heard people say that some babies arrive “with bread under their arm,” bringing blessings with them.

And with you, something wonderful happened.

In spite of the nausea and midnight cravings, I felt like a superwoman—working with new strength, energy, and drive.

I would go out to buy groceries and feel as though I could carry the world in two cloth bags.

Coming home, our house seemed to embrace me, welcoming me, letting me rest peacefully in bed without worries—as if everything were complete, as if nothing were missing.

Those days, your father came home from work, tired but somehow full of energy.

He cooked for us, woke us with love, and sat us at the table.

We ate almost half-asleep, devouring our plates and then sharing his.

Curiously, he didn’t mind.

I must confess—I always saved the last bite of food to give him, because he has such an appetite and I loved to share with him.

But when you arrived, he began to give us half of his plate instead, proud that we ate so much.

Life was peaceful.

At night we walked together in the park, under a dark but clear sky, with stars scattered and the moon shining bright.

I still remember it that way.

Back home, your father talked to you often.

You moved toward his voice, listening.

He stroked you gently, said goodnight, and gave me a sweet kiss.

We prayed together and fell asleep as one.

Those were days of pure happiness for me.

Joy filled my entire being, overflowing from within.

I sang to God all day, and I sang to you about Him.

I think of those days now, and though they were few, they feel endless in my memory.

I scheduled an ultrasound to see if you were well.

The doctor said the embryo was well attached, the placenta looked fine.

She estimated the date of conception and your due date:

May 24th we would hold you in our arms.

We heard your heartbeat: the most vibrant, strong, and wonderful sound one can hear.

Rapid and alive.

That day we shared the news with our families.

Everyone was overjoyed.

Later, at a gathering with friends, we shared it too.

One of them was about to give birth, and we announced our blessing there.

We laughed, ate quesadillas, watched the children ride ponies, and ended the night with joy.

But then came the appointment that shattered us.

The doctor’s words broke me into pieces I don’t know if I have ever gathered again.

Your head was swollen.

Your abdominal cavity had not formed properly, and soon your abdomen would fuse with your heart.

With your strong, beautiful heart.

She asked if we wanted to know your sex.

What else was left?

We said yes.

She told us you were a girl.

Our hearts broke even more.

We cried all night, in despair so deep it felt impossible to breathe without pain.

I begged God desperately:

“Please, my God… please, let this not be true… let it be a mistake.”

How could all our joy turn to such agony?

Never had I been so happy.

Never so full, so whole.

And then, all at once, everything became unbearable sorrow.

There were no words to describe that moment.

No words to comfort us.

We went to the church—it was closed.

But outside its doors, we cried out to God with all our hearts, begging Him that it was all a mistake.

It was a nightmare too cruel to endure.

My cousin held me as I wept.

She urged us to see another doctor—a maternal-fetal specialist.

We went the next day.

He confirmed the diagnosis.

The tiny hope I held was extinguished.

The pain was unbearable.

As though someone twisted my heart with merciless force.

Even breathing hurt.

But I kept breathing anyway.

He gave me a photo of your little face.

You looked like your father’s sisters.

God granted me that desire: to see what love had created.

He believed you were a girl, but asked for genetic tests to rule out worse conditions.

He said we would need to interrupt the pregnancy.

I couldn’t bear those words.

It felt like stepping into an abyss.

Your father took the lead.

I believe it broke his heart, though he never said so.

He had always longed deeply to be a father.

The procedure was set for Saturday, December 10.

The pastor came to our home the day before, trying to comfort me, but I resisted letting you go.

Because you were alive, your heart beating inside me, my sweet little angel.

Forgive me, if you felt my anguish.

Forgive me… forgive me.

That last night with you in our bed, I was shattered.

The next day, we prayed, asking forgiveness for what we were about to do.

It was never my intention to say goodbye so soon.

I only carried you for four months.

Six hours of pills, fever spiking high, contractions beginning by night.

At the hospital, my waters broke as they wheeled me inside.

Fever raged, antibiotics dripped into my veins.

I was exhausted.

Nurses urged me to push, but the pain—physical and emotional—was unbearable.

The contractions stopped.

They took me into surgery.

I didn’t want to leave you alone.

I thought maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to go with you.

But then I thought of your father.

And I begged God to let me live—for him, so he wouldn’t be left alone.

My blood pressure dropped dangerously low.

They put me under.

An hour later, I woke up outside the room.

It was over.

You were gone.

The emptiness you left in my heart was terrible.

I tried to be strong.

The very next day your father had his first exam at university.

I insisted he go.

He was studying his dream career.

We had begun this journey together—pregnancy and his studies.

That August had been the best of all.

That December, the worst.

They let me bring you home, so we could bury you close to us.

I dug the little grave myself, placing the white-and-pink box gently into the earth, tying it with white and pink ribbons, as though laying you tenderly into a cradle.

Beneath a young soursop tree, beside our home.

To keep you near.

The days that followed were gray.

I could not stop crying.

I could not sing.

My throat closed with sorrow, tears endlessly falling.

I know God understood why I could no longer sing to Him then.

Yet I also know He was with me, when your father left for work and I stayed alone in our room that was never truly empty.

But the pain did not lessen.

Three days after you were gone, my body produced milk for the baby it had lost.

It hurt deeply, yet filled me with wonder.

My body was ready to nourish you with love.

People told me not to cry, that God would give me another baby.

I couldn’t understand.

I was grieving you.

Another child could never erase that pain.

I asked your father to let me grieve in silence.

He offered his shoulder, and I wept on it for a long time.

Losing you was the hardest thing I have ever lived.

Because with you, I had heaven on earth.

I never knew I could feel so full, so alive, so complete, so strong.

Thank you, my little angel.

Later, the genetic results arrived.

They were not severe—common, even.

The doctor told us something that eased my wounded heart:

You were a boy.

A brave, strong, hungry little boy who didn’t like junk food, who loved his father’s voice, and who stopped making me sick with morning nausea after the third month.

So considerate of me.

I believe you would have loved me deeply.

You would have cared for me.

You would have wiped my tears.

Knowing you were a boy soothed my heart.

It calmed the pain.

I know you would have been strong, able to endure hardship.

I could not.

I gathered the scattered lily bulbs from the garden and planted them above where you rest.

I placed them carefully, covering your resting place completely.

The next June, they all bloomed.

And God reminded me that one day I will hold you in my arms again, my beloved Lucas.

But then you will be whole, and we will never part.

You will never know pain or death again.

And my little garden of lilies will be just that…

a tender, nostalgic memory.