The car engine stopped and Dad took the keys out of ignition but remained still; I waited in the backseat inquiring why we weren’t leaving to go pick up my younger sister from preschool until a bomb was dropped on my heart.
“Gabby, your mother’s not having the baby,” those words conveyed confusion and worry to my mind. “…it died in her stomach.”
I bit my lip as the hot tears welled in my eyes. I wouldn’t know its name, I wouldn’t know its gender, I wouldn’t know anything. The tears gushed out of my eyes as I moaned and heaved like a child, helpless and abandoned.
I walked inside the school weeping and not regarding the concerned looks teachers gave me—they didn’t know the pain that was eating away at my soul. A piece of my heart that I never knew and never would know was gone, and I thought nothing could ever put it back.


I opened the hospital room door with great expectations; my heart was a bucket of joy about to overflow. My sister, Dani and my grandmother (who had taken care of Dani and I while my mom was in the hospital) trailed behind me.
The room was small with a few chairs by the window and smelled of hand sanitizer, but I focused my attention on the weary woman, drained of emotion sitting up-right in her bed.
She managed a weak smile and whispered, “Hi…come here.” We obeyed and sat by the window. There I noticed a baby swaddled in a blue blanket that my mother held in her arms: he made no movement or sound.
“Do you want to hold him?” Mom asked.
I nodded and practically jumped on the hospital bed bubbling with excitement as a pink infant was placed in my arms. His eyes were glued shut and I could feel his chest rise and set to a rhythm, slow and steady. At that moment, I realized this was him…this was my brother. The thought of a having a brother was surreal and it took a while for my mind to grasp the thought, but as I cradled the child in my arms my heart knotted in love and adoration.
“His name’s Evan Christopher Warren.” I thought my parents had agreed on Joshua, but Evan was fine—just fine.
My grandma soon sat down next to me on the bed with her arms open. I carefully gave the fragile child to her…and he opened his eyes. Those eyes, beady and black as a clear night sky, stared up at the ceiling in curiosity. Those eyes, beady and black, that tied my heart in love for this new baby. Those eyes, beady and black, of a newborn child that had fortunately made it out of the womb…and lived.


“Evan stop it!”
“Evan, don’t touch that!”
“No, Evan!”
Evan is probably the most frequently used word in my house. He’s always antagonizing someone and getting into mischief, but I’ve learned to be grateful for him.
However, I haven’t forgotten the child my mother miscarried and sometimes my heart still aches at the thought that he or she would supposedly be six years old around June 15, 2010, but I have Evan and for now that piece of my heart is restored.