'The Bag Under the Bed Doesn’t Have a DNR' by Erin Bondo

She thinks I don’t know about the bag, but I do, found it months ago foraging for a spare duvet to  make up the guest bed for Auntie Mick, eyes snagging on a flash of bumblebee yellow, and I looked. I had to. I'm not someone who can let things go: I pick and pick and pick until it bleeds, or worse. So I excavated my mother's carefully concealed dream, each tiny item gender neutral, tags on, suspiciously cheerful – OshKosh B'gosh, Beluga Baby, Mini Mioche – the stench of talcum powder and hope a swift kick to the gut. But not the right kind; not the kind she wants for me.

For months after, I tried to tell her, but there is no script, no social ritual or appropriate announcement, not like the alternative.

Tiny Converse sneakers nestled between adult counterparts.

Custom t-shirts proclaiming ‘coming soon’ or ‘big sister.’

To-the-point ultrasounds with perfunctory details: what, who, when.

I imagined arriving at the house unannounced, removing my coat with a flourish to reveal ‘barren womb’ printed across my flat belly in curling cursive, but I couldn’t do it. She would never find the humour, would think I was mocking her. It is only now, packing up leftover tea sandwiches from the wake, edges dried to an inedible crust, that I realise there is no one left to tell.

I decide to keep the bag, for now, her dream on life support a little while longer.