No one would want to talk about her daughter, no one would want to remember her, so she’d become a secret that Fern would turn over and over in her mind for the rest of her life, like a knife with no handle, a knife that was all blade, a knife that would make her bleed every time she took it out. She would bleed whenever she saw a pregnant woman in a store. She would bleed whenever a friend asked if she wanted to hold their baby. She would bleed when she didn’t turn the newspaper fast enough past the birth announcements.
