This is something I posted on tumblr but I decided it was strong enough to be put on here as well.

As always, I own nothing.

Objectively, she knows it is ridiculous and stupid to be haunted by a door. It's a door in her own home and there is no reason that it should be anything more than that. Rationally she knows the door is nothing but a piece of wood that leads to a room. But no matter what she tells herself, no matter how rationally she argues with herself, she can't bring herself to look at it, let alone open it.

She knows what lies behind that door and she can't face it. She knows that one day she'll have to go in there, to face the sunny, yellow walls and the bright blue sky Bert had painted on the ceiling. But to have the complete emptiness gathered in her stomach mirrored by that empty crib… her throat closes just thinking about it.

She's been listless since that absolutely horrible night a week ago when all of her dreams were shattered by one sharp pain in her stomach. All she wants to do is lie in bed and sleep, to forget, if only for a moment, that though she's nearly back to her normal size and no longer has a baby growing inside of her, her arms are infuriatingly, heartbreakingly empty. But there's her husband to think about.

He's a wreck and he has every right to be. He might have been more excited about becoming a father than she was about becoming a mother. Of course that was one of the things she loved about him—their child had him wrapped around a tiny finger before birth. He'd come home every day and kiss her before bending to kiss and nuzzle her growing belly. Mary had rolled her eyes at the time. Now she wishes that she'd either savored his smile more or that she could have warned him of the impending doom, that she could have kept him from becoming so attached. She wishes she could have done something to avoid this all. She wishes she had never seen the look on his face when they realized that the nursery they had worked so hard on wouldn't be needed after all. She had watched him crumple, fighting to keep strong for her sake, but he looked deflated, broken. The doctor had left and Bert had turned to her. She held him while he cried; try as she might, she couldn't summon a single tear. Everything was just muted; it felt like she was trying to function in a vat of molasses.

She hasn't cried yet. She knows that Bert's worried about her, that he wants to be there for her, to grieve with her. But Mary doesn't want to grieve. She wants to forget, to move on. His method seems to be wallowing in the sadness, to bathe in it. She hates it. She doesn't want to feel sad. She doesn't want to feel empty. She wants anything but that. She wants to stop feeling like a failure. She wants that crib to stop appearing in her dreams when she manages sleep. She wants that damn door to go away.

He's smothering her with attention. He's trying to take care of her. Objectively she knows that. He's worried about her; he wants her to be taken care of. But she doesn't want it. She wants him to leave her alone. She wants him to stop looking at her, because she can't stop wondering if their child might have had his eyes.

She wants him to get angry with her. She wants him to be furious; she wants him to hate her. If she had done something, anything, different, if she hadn't been herself or hadn't been so insistent on nannying, or something, their child might still be alive. But she had done something wrong and now they are once again childless.

It's funny, she thinks. They've technically never had a child, so there really isn't anything different, but somehow that doesn't matter. They're childless now and she has a gaping hole in her chest where her heart should be. Every day she thinks her chest might collapse. After all, it's empty now. Her heart had shattered the moment the doctor shook his head.

"I'm getting a cup of tea," he says. "Want one?"

"No, thank you," she replies, not looking up from the newspaper. It's filled with other people's tragedies. A man shot to death in a well-known park—all she can think is that a mother once held him in her arms and smelled his hair.

"You sure?"

"Positive, Bert."

"Mary, don't ya think we ought t'-"

"No, I don't," she says hastily. He wants to talk, to process. She just wants to forget.

"But Mary, this isn't healthy, this carrying on."

"I'm sure I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," she sniffs and buries her face in the paper again.

"Mary, you 'aven't even cried! We lost our child. That 'appened! And 'ere you are, carrying on as if everything is normal!"

"Women lose babies every day, Bert. It's nothing new."

"Those women aren't you, Mary! Those babies aren't yours. It's different and don't pretend it's not."

"And what would you have me do, Bert? You want me to become a simpering, sniveling mess? Be reduced to a quivering mass of tears? Would that seem more valid to you?" She doesn't know how, but suddenly they're yelling at one another. It's not something that has ever happened before.

"I want you t' let yourself feel something for once in your life! I want you t' drop that practically perfect act of yours an' acknowledge th' fact that maybe everything isn't bloody perfect!"

"I'm sorry if my grief isn't genuine enough for you, Bert. I'll attempt to be more convincing in the future."

He rubs at his eyes tiredly. "That isn't it at all. You just put on this face like nothing is wrong and you don't feel anything. You're numb. You won't let yourself grieve because you'd 'ave t' feel the loss! It's not healthy!"

Mary feels as though he just kicked her in the chest. "You think I don't feel it, Bert? I can't stop feeling it. There are moments I stop breathing because it hurts so badly. I would give anything for the numbness you're accusing me of."

"Mary…"

He reaches out but she flinches and slaps his hand away. "Don't touch me."

"Mary, we 'ave t' help each other through this. Otherwise we'll just both be destroyed. Just… just let me 'elp you."

"I don't need your help. I don't want it."

"Then 'elp me! Because you might not feel like you're goin' t' fall apart, but I'm not as strong as you an' I don't even know 'ow I've managed t' make it this far!"

"Bert, I know you're hurting, but what's done is done. No amount of sadness will ever change what happened and the sooner you accept that, the better."

"'ave you accepted it?"

"What sort of question is that?"

"I only ask because I don't see 'ow you can accept something you won't deal with."

He's baiting her now, trying to get her to respond emotionally. Before they were married, he'd never have pushed her like this. But now he's trying to make her mad, to make her cry, to make her do anything but hide behind her smooth, practically perfect face. Part of her wants to rise to it, to get angry, to yell, to scream at the unfairness of the universe. But that would take energy she just doesn't have, it would mean swimming straight into the ocean of self-loathing and hatred that has created a nasty knot in her stomach that she's unsure can ever be undone.

And so she takes a deep breath and glares at him. "I'm dealing just fine, thank you."

"Of course you are," he mutters, turning away with a roll of his eyes. She watches him storm off, feeling sickly satisfied with herself. He's well on his way to hating her.

And for the first time in her life, she wants him to.

0ooo0

After that outburst, they don't really speak. Bert has to start working again though, for fear they'll starve and Mary's life becomes simultaneously easier and harder with the breathing room. Now she doesn't have anybody trying to force her to feel things, but she has far more time to think about the things he wanted her to feel.

Still, she hasn't cried.

And he doesn't hate her. He's made that very clear; he's frustrated, he's angry, he's sad, but he doesn't hate her. Still, when they're lying in bed, it's as if there's an invisible wall between them. He might as well be sleeping on the couch, which she had nearly suggested at first. His sadness was just too pervasive; she couldn't sleep with him there. But slowly she's gotten used to it. You can get used to anything when you have to.

Still, for some reason, tonight she can't sleep. It's a hot, humid summer night and the sheets are sticking to her skin. The windows are open and Bert is sprawled out, snoring slightly. For the first time since this ordeal started, she looks over at him and feels something other than sadness and guilt. His sleeping face, unlined by grief, reminds her of the way she felt just a month ago, the way she's felt about him for years now. Her lips curve upward before she can force them to stop. For all her talk, she does love him. She had vowed to do so for the rest of her life and, though it's been harder lately, she knows that she will never break that vow.

She reaches out to touch him, but stops herself. She doesn't want to wake him and she has something she needs to do first.

She slips out of bed and pulls on a light cotton dressing gown over her pajamas before padding out of the room. She passes through the living room, stopping for a moment to stare at the sofa, sighing as she remembers the late nights that she'd spent in Bert's arms, his hands resting on her stomach as they discussed possible names, their hopes and wishes for the future. She misses that intimacy. She misses that happiness.

Shaking her head, she moves on. She can't get caught up in all of that before she finishes what she started. And so she leaves the sofa to face the door. Steeling herself, she puts her hand on the knob and turns.

It's a bit musty, but she quickly crosses to the window and opens it. Moonlight streams through the window as she looks around. It really is a perfect nursery, small but cozy. The yellow walls are light and airy and the wood of the furniture that fills the room is all painted white. Stuffed animals are piled in one corner and picture books line shelves. A mobile of stars hangs over the crib.

Mary exhales shakily. The first time she'd seen it finished, she could just picture herself holding her child, rocking her son to sleep as she hummed quietly. She could see Bert sneaking in to check on his daughter in the middle of the night. Never had she ever imagined that those images might not come true.

A stuffed rabbit catches her eye. The Banks had sent it when she'd let them know of the baby. She picks it up and sits down in the rocking chair, holding the toy close to her chest. This was supposed to be a room of hope, of love and joy, not one of sorrow and grief.

She pulls the rabbit up to her nose; there's just the slightest hint of that powdery new baby scent and Mary feels a catch in her throat. She is supposed to be a mother; she feels it in her bones. She's meant to be a mother. She is supposed to be sitting in this chair in the middle of the night, exhausted, nursing her child, and absolutely in love with the tiny being in her arms.

Instead she has a stuffed rabbit.

She bites hard on her lip as she suddenly feels the gaping emptiness in her stomach again. Grief crashes over her. Her hands turn into claws as she wraps her arms around herself and grips herself. Her nails bite into her skin. She tastes blood in her mouth; she's cut her lip on her teeth. She can't breathe.

"Mary?"

She looks up and sees Bert in the doorway. Tears begin to sting her eyes but don't fall. Her lips form his name but no sound comes out. He quickly crosses the room and lays a gentle hand on her shoulder. Mary's bottom lip starts to tremble. She gazes around the room, taking in everything before meeting his kind, gentle gaze. "Everything would have been perfect," she whispers.

He kneels down and gathers her into his arms. For the first time since losing the baby, she feels like there might be a chance for hope one day. And for the first time, she breaks down, allowing herself to fall into the grief and soak his shoulder with tears.

"I know, love," he murmurs, holding her tight and stroking her hair as he allows her to cry. His lips brush her temple and she can hear that his voice is strangled by tears too. "I know."