In the weeks that follow the miscarriage, Will and I have pulled together. He insisted that we would try again after my body had time to heal. Dr. Carter and Abbi have both assured me that since I had a natural miscarriage, it would be okay to try again after one cycle.

It's now been three weeks since I miscarried. Will has been working long days at his clinics and taking on extra duties with his clinical trials. I know he's not trying to pull away, but it feels like it. He's assured me that we'll try again, and that I'm to stay with him until the end, when I deliver his baby.

I'm not so sure that's the best decision, but I'm selfish enough to cling to every moment I can spend with him. Since the night he held me in his arms, I've held on to the hope that maybe something more was developing between us. I can't speak for him, but for me, I feel a connection to him that I've never felt with anyone else.

When he steps into the room, I don't have to see him or hear him to know he's there. I just feel his presence.

I purchased ten canvases for the paintings that have been swirling through my mind. Ever since the miscarriage, I've been drawn to my art with an almost desperate desire to paint.

That's how I find myself sitting in the sunroom with a canvas in front of me, and sheets thrown over the furniture to protect them from any splatter.

I close my eyes, allowing the strokes to form from the image in my mind. Every line. Every curve. Every stroke of the brush builds the image in my mind. It's starts out slowly, and like the petals of a moonflower reaching out to blossom, it begins to take shape. The canvas morphs into something sprung from the depths of my grief. It's born of pain and isolation but speaks to the heart of inclusion.

I step back, glancing up at the clock only to realize that I've been painting for nearly fourteen hours with nothing to eat or drink and no bathroom breaks.

"Breathtaking." His voice is barely above a whisper, and when I turn to face him, he gives me a pained smile. He walks toward me. Our eyes locked on each other’s as he reaches forward and takes the brush from my hand and places it in the jar next to my easel.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know you were home."

He steps toward me, stroking the side of my face with the backs of his fingers. "I know. I've been watching you, from a distance. I didn't want to break the spell you seemed to be in."

I blush, embarrassed to have been caught in such a fashion. "Sometimes when I paint, I lose sense of time, and everything around me." I give a shy smile, and he smiles in return. "It hasn't happened in a really long time, but this piece was calling to me today. I had to get it finished." I turn back to look at the painting.

The black and white image of two silhouettes curled into one another, one larger than the other and more masculine, holding the small silhouette close to his body in a protective embrace. Their faces cast in shadow with a crescent moon as the backdrop. In the moon’s curve lies the silhouette of a baby cradled lovingly in the moon’s embrace.

It's the image of us the night we lost the baby. Will holding the pieces of me together while the mother moon carries the lost child off to dreamland.

His voice is gravelly when he speaks. "What do you call it?" He knows what it represents, and it's pulling at his heart just as it has mine. To see its physical manifestation is somewhat healing and heartbreaking at the same time.

"Born of loss," I answer.

He nods, his fingers tracing a heated path down my arm before he slowly pulls away. "It's beautiful. You're very talented, Kara. You should never hold back art that speaks to the soul like this piece."

I lower my head. I've never painted a piece that was so close to my heart. And to see him looking at it with a heartwarming appreciation melts any barriers that formed between us over the past few weeks.

"Thank you."

He shakes his head. "No, thank you. You've come to mean a great deal to me. I know I may not always show it, but it's there." He leans down and places a kiss on my forehead. The heat of his lips is there one second and gone the next when he turns and makes his way to his bedroom.

I'm left standing there somewhat dazed and confused. It's so hard to know where I stand with Will. One minute, it's like looking through a glass door. He's easy to read. His feelings transparent. The next, it's like trying to navigate a plane in the dark of night through dense fog.

I sigh. One day, when all this is behind me, I'll look back on this moment, and I'll know what he meant to say instead of what he didn't.

I work on cleaning the sunroom for the next hour, and then make my way to my room upstairs. The light glowing beneath Will's door causes my steps to stutter to a stop.

He's awake. He's hurting.

I shake my head and turn back to my room. I'm covered in paint, and I desperately need a shower. No matter how much I want to go to his room and offer him the comfort of my body and my heart, I know it's not the right time.

He'll come to me when he's ready. Until then, I'll be waiting.