I want to tell her that I get it.
When she sees me with a hand resting on my belly, eyeing the baby clothes in Target and she has to look away.
When she passes me in church, choking back a hard and bitter lump in her throat as she hears someone else congratulating us.
When she unknowingly steps into line behind me at the grocery store and switches lanes as I turn to the side.
When she passes me with her head down, arms crossed, and with as swift a step as possible.
When she goes home and tells her husband how seethingly jealous she is when she sees pregnant ladies everywhere who are blissfully ignorant of the dark hell she is living in.
When she sits in an empty nursery, touching everything that never got used, wondering how it could have been different and what her baby would be doing now.
When she marks a first birthday with no one-year-old.
I don't want to say anything. I just want to reach out a hand and let her know:
I get it.