I am 10 minutes early.

After signing my name on the first available line, I sit and wait.

Deliberately I thumb through magazines, one after the other as families of four smile up at me from the glossy pages.

It’s finally my turn.

I am ushered to a dark room and asked to undress.

The image on the large screen above me is fuzzy, difficult to make out and yet somehow I know.

My hands begin to sweat and I am holding my breath.

“I’m sorry, there is no heartbeat.”

A sound I have never made before escapes my throat.

Tonya writes Letters For Lucas and at any given moment can be found changing a diaper or enjoying a glass of Cab while Dave Matthews plays in the background.

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