Eighteen month to three years- there's your window. People stop asking how you're doing and you have to prompt your child's name into conversations or you might never hear it at all.  Somewhere, in the back of your mind, that really isn't so sound these days, you begin to wonder if this marvelous creature existed in the first pace.  You retreat to pills and to sleep to make that connection, meanwhile pissing off your husband who wants the pre-cory-death Nicole back for him and his boy;  "Exercise.  Stay busy."  he says.  I just want to scream my lungs out.  Nothing can fix this.  It's all ruined.  I'm broken.  Can't you see?

Trying to play normal at work or at home is exhausting me.  

The pictues don't go away.  The guilt lingers.  And to be fair, he knows nothing of what I see when I lay my head down at night.  Easy for you to say when she wasn't your heart.