My fingers uncurled, one by one. I fell back against the bed, hollow.
I checked myself out and went home to sort through my daughter's belongings.
The moment I stepped into her room and picked up the little dress she'd loved most, a sharp acid burn shot from my stomach to my throat.
I stumbled into the bathroom and retched over the toilet, but nothing came up except bile.
A single thought flashed through my mind.
Gripping the cold edge of the sink, I stared down at the pregnancy test with shaking hands.
I was pregnant.
I stared at the two red lines, my stomach lurching.
Was this a gift from God?
A flicker of joy sparked inside me, only to be swallowed whole by the grief of losing my daughter.
My daughter had left me just yesterday.
I forced myself to push open the door to her room, tears brimming as I packed her toys into a box, one by one.
Then I saw the smart speaker sitting on her nightstand. The tears spilled instantly. My hands trembled as I picked it up.
She used to record her day on this speaker, little updates and things she wanted to tell me. Every night before bed, she'd curl up on my lap and play them back, beaming the whole time.