My heart sinks as I sit in the car watching the world go by as my husband drives us home. I cry silently knowing that if he saw, I couldn't explain why.

At least not to him or in a way he'd understand.

Now, that's not to say I couldn't put my feelings into words and describe the width, depth, and breadth of my sadness - because that I can do. What I struggle with - among other things - is being able to share this with him. He understands at least part of my anguish. He knows and likely experiences some of it himself… at moments, perhaps, when he's alone and contemplating our lives and where they might take us in the next five, ten, fifteen years.

Or maybe he doesn't think about what it would be like to never be called "Dad".

But I think about the baby I may never hold and the young girl she'll grow into, calling me Mommy and reaching for my hand as we walk to the beach in our sandals. I think about her curly blonde hair which has too much red in it to really be blonde. And I think about the stickiness of her fingers from the popsicle her Daddy doesn't know she's eaten for breakfast. And how her brother is running ahead of us and is already knee-deep in the water, splashing the dog and carrying on, wrecking his shoes again.

I think about the way pregnancy might feel and the pain of labor; I think about the way my husbands eyes would glow at me and swell with pride and love at seeing my belly grow; I think about the camaraderie I would experience with other young moms facing similar struggles.

My mind is stuck on these things and cannot move on. I can't escape their eyes, the smile on their faces, the stickiness of those little fingers... the laughter I'll never hear.

Depression is at once a very funny thing and not a laughing matter at all. It makes every little sorrow into a much larger one and every happy thought gets twisted into something less than its true self.

I wonder... will I pass on my depression to her like my mother did to her daughter?