Wednesdays.

It was a Wednesday.
One of those overly bright, overly chatty midweek potlucks at work where the tables are sagging with crockpots and paper plates, and someone always brings a casserole no one touches.

I was refilling my drink when she walked in—my coworker, freshly back from maternity leave, carrying her baby boy like a sunrise in her arms.

Everyone turned.
The energy shifted instantly, like a spark had entered the room.

There were squeals, excited footsteps, arms reaching out for turns to hold him. She beamed, proud and a little tired, the way new mothers are. Someone offered her a plate, someone else pulled out a chair.

And then came the question, soft and smiling:
“Do you want to hold him?”

I hesitated, but only for a breath. I didn’t want to seem strange or cold. I smiled. “Sure.”

He was small. Heavy in the way that newborns are, like the universe is still tucked into their bodies. His skin was warm, and he wore a tiny blue beanie that kept slipping down over his eyebrows.

He nestled into me, completely trusting. I rocked a little, the way you instinctively do, even if you haven’t held a baby in years.

And then it hit me.

This wave.
This slow, burning tide of never.

I will never have a moment like this with a child of my own. Never hold my baby in a crowded room, never have coworkers ask about his name or who he looks like. Never bounce my son on my hip while balancing a paper plate of potato salad.

My arms were full, but my heart broke in two.

I handed him back carefully. Smiled. Excused myself with some excuse about needing to grab napkins, or check on something—anything.

I made it to the bathroom.

Locked the stall.

And cried.

Quietly. The kind of crying you do when your body is trying to protect you from feeling too much all at once.
Because how do you explain that your chest hurts from the weight of a baby you will never have?

How do you say that holding someone else’s joy made your grief pulse so loudly you thought the whole room could hear it?

When I returned, I blended back in. Took a bite of something sweet I couldn’t taste. Laughed at someone’s story. Because that’s what you do. You learn how to carry your grief in small, invisible ways. You learn how to survive moments that feel like reminders of everything that was taken from you.

He was beautiful.
And I was genuinely happy for her.

But happiness and grief aren’t opposites.
They’re roommates.
And that day, they both sat at my table.