Our son was born and died on the same day - August 14th, 2019. He lived for four hours. We named him Samuel.

For the first few years, people would mention him carefully, like he was a tragedy to be gentle about. That stung, but I understood. Then gradually, people just... stopped. His birth-death day passes and no one remembers but us. My sister had a baby two years ago and suddenly that August 14th is about the new niece's birthday. My parents' friends don't know he ever existed. My husband's coworkers definitely don't. We'll meet someone who knows us well and realize they have no idea we ever had a son.

It's like he's being erased by the living world's unwillingness to sit with something that makes everyone uncomfortable. And the thing is, I get it - I've made it easy for them. I don't bring him up. I let conversations move past him. Because talking about dead babies makes people deeply, visibly uncomfortable, and I'm tired of managing that.

But here's what I can't articulate to most people: not being forgotten is not the same as wanting constant mourning. I don't need his four hours to dominate every conversation. I just need him to exist in the world. I need people to know he was born and to not pretend that didn't happen.

Sometimes I wonder if the legacy people obsess about is really just insurance against disappearing. Like if we do something big enough, create something lasting enough, we prove we were here. But Samuel didn't need to accomplish anything. He was just... here. And now he's not. And most people won't ever know that he was.

How do we hold space for people - and lives - that left barely a trace?