I want to tell a story about the birth of my second son, but I do not know how to tell it.

I could start by recounting the irrefutable details: October 15, 2018, was temperate. The day was sunny. It was a Monday.

I could tell you that I was feeling done with my pregnancy, in the predictable way that women at 40 weeks feel. Moving through the world had become difficult. Getting dressed required assistance. Sleep was impossible. The exhaustion of carrying another person peaks at some point, and I had hit my peak.

I could tell you that, at home, 40 minutes away, a new sitter was caring for my 22-month-old son, who likely did not understand, despite my insistence on repeating it,

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