I see you from my car as I drive down the street, you, your husband, and your two kids playing in the yard.
I see you in the frozen food section of the grocery store, your toddler in the seat of the cart and your preschooler by your side, you give your son the biggest kiss as he squeals.
I see you in the waiting room at the doctors office, with your daughter, as the front desk receptionist asks how you've both been doing lately.
I see you and see my future. My heart aches. Sometimes, I see you with a smile and hope, but sometimes I see you with heartache and it's all I can do not to run the other way.
Seven years, five months, four weeks, and two days.
What I wouldn't give to see myself in motherhood.