for just a little while

a tender story of loss, longing, and loving

Broken Womb, Painting by Victoria Orellana*

Aunt Lena died in 1971. She was only eighteen. Just a girl, really. A baby having a baby, then losing herself to love—or something like it.

They say it was Seconal. The red pill. That’s what she took the night she died at my mother’s house. Mama had stepped out to the store. Lena and her boyfriend were there, along with my three siblings and me—I wasn’t even a year old. And Lena’s daughter. Tasha. Just two years old.

The boyfriend called for help, but by the time Mama rushed to the emergency room, Grandma was already there. It was too late. Lena had blood coming from her nose. That’s how Mama remembers it. That’s what stuck.

The drugs didn’t belong to Lena. She borrowed them from him. Because he did them, she did them too.

She was Grandma’s youngest. Grandma had lost others—miscarriages, even twins—but Lena made it through. Until she didn’t. And in some ways, neither did Tasha.

Tasha grew up longing for her mother and for motherhood itself. As long as I’ve known her, that longing never left. She’s a nurturer. She once cared for my sister’s Doberman like he was her firstborn. Fed him ribeyes. Let him sleep in her bed. Spoiled him with love. When it was time to give him back, she begged to keep him.

Later, she told me she’d had a baby. A daughter. Said the baby had died shortly after birth. I don’t remember how long the baby lived—or even how she died—but I remember Tasha showing me a picture.

Only… the photo wasn’t her baby.

It was mine.

Not biologically mine. But spiritually. The photo she showed me was of Joy—my baby sister. Mama’s last child.

Joy was the child I mothered after I lost my own.

I was seventeen when I had an abortion. I was young, poor, and terrified. Before I even made it home from the clinic, I knew what I had done. I had taken a life. A part of me. And something inside me broke.

Out of regret—or desperation—I got pregnant again on purpose. Within four months, I miscarried. The doctor told me not to try again for a year. But I couldn’t wait. I didn’t listen.

I became convinced I was cursed.

Still, I prayed. I begged. I got pregnant again. This time, I held on with everything I had. And then, one day, I became a mother to a daughter. Later, I had another.

But before those girls, there were two others—never held, never named. And in the space left behind, Joy became something like salvation.

After my first loss, Mama had Joy, and I cared for her like she was mine. She slept beside me most nights. I sang to her. Rocked her. Told myself I would raise her with the love I never got to give.

But when I moved to Georgia, that dream ended. Mama wasn’t going to let me take her baby. I didn’t ask. I just cried the whole last day, holding Joy like a memory I didn’t want to lose.

I took her baby picture with me.

So when Tasha showed me that same picture years later—said “this is my baby”—I didn’t correct her. I only said, “She looks like Joy.”

I understood.

She needed to be a mother. Needed to belong to someone the way no one ever truly belonged to her.

Just like I did.

It took me years to forgive myself. To believe I wasn’t cursed. I carried so many offenses—what others had done to me, yes, but also what I had done to myself.

Writing saved me.

When I wrote my first book, a kind of autobiography dressed in fiction, I poured it all out. The shame. The longing. The loneliness. I wrote about the abortion, the miscarriage, the motherhood I fought for, and the grace that eventually found me.

And somehow, in telling the truth—my truth—I began to forgive. Others. Myself.

Now, when I look at that baby picture of Joy, I see more than a face. I see the way grief bends itself into love. I see the need to mother something, even if only in memory. I see Tasha. I see myself. I see Lena.

Women who lost. Women who longed.

Women who loved anyway,
even if only for just a little while.

¹

1. *About the Artist: Victoria is a young artist and personal friend. She created Rae’s Collection in honor of her daughter Rae whom she miscarried in 2020. The collection was part of her healing journey. She is a commissioned artist creating vibrant and interesting custom pieces. You can find and support her on instagram @lilbiggurlv333.