After losing my newborn son, I gave everything away to a struggling mother—by morning, dozens of strollers covered my lawn, each holding a sealed box

for the next stroller, the next box. Another blanket, and a knitted elephant toy. Another letter. This one began: Our son Owen was stillborn at thirty-eight weeks… The third letter began: We lost twins… The fourth: I never thought I’d survive burying my little girl…

By the sixth stroller, I could barely see through my tears. The strollers didn’t look continue reading …