My phone is silent. No chirp of a text, “How are you?” They don’t even give me a chance to lie, “I’m fine, thank you.”

I won’t tell you I’m not healing. I won’t tell you how much I hate this life. I won’t tell you how much I hate God. I won’t tell you my days are a drippy mess. I miss my child. I want him back. At any cost. I cry at random moments all day every day. I cry every single time I say his name. I cry every single time I see his picture. I cry every single time I think of tomorrow… and the next day… and the next.

The anguish of amputation again and again and again.

I have become two people. The lady of the mask, fine how are you. And the weeping woman of swollen face and loud sobs hidden from humans. Nobody should have to see her. She embarrasses me.

She doesn’t live up to the hype: You’re so strong. You’re so courageous. She’s a fake. Or I’m a fake, she’s real.