The baby began to kick halfway through the service. Olivia winced with every spasm, hoping others would interpret her pain as grief. As she bent down in front of the casket, the baby administered its hardest kick yet, causing her to cry out sharply and fold forward across the body. Aunt Jean rushed forward to guide the young woman away, murmuring condolences through wrinkled lips. Olivia’s eyes watered from the pain, and she let the tears fall, composing the best melancholic expression she could manage. Just pretend, she reminded herself. A couple more hours, and you never have to see him again.

After the service, an unending stream of faceless people passed by her, squeezing her hand and uttering “I am so sorry for your loss,” or “Your husband is in a better place,” between perfumed hugs. Olivia could barely breathe in her black wool dress. From the punishing kicks coming from her stomach, it seemed the baby couldn’t catch its breath either.

Sixteen days later, the boy kicked his way through her body and into the world. Purple and screaming, he flailed and beat his tiny fists at the doctors. Just like his father, Olivia thought, barely conscious and covered in blood. His final goddamn gift to me.

***

In the cemetery, a young woman walks towards a fresh grave. Placing a small, squirming bundle in front of the tombstone, she unleashes an agonized wail. The unwanted bundle echoes her cries, their two screams vibrating off each other like bats hunting in the night. The woman scratches at the marble lettering of the new tombstone. “You forced this into me, now take it back!” she sobs, looking at the bundle with hot hatred. The man in the grave does not answer. Hanged men never do.

Amanda Wolf