As I surfaced (and handed my son his banana, which he promptly and without ceremony, threw on the floor), I realized that what upset me the most wasn’t necessarily what I had forgotten in that particular instance (who cares about the banana), but that I was forgetting things at all that I thought I should remember, and what I knew had been some of my happiest times—sharing family meals—as a mother to boot.

I’ve been pregnant four times in the last six years, and have two living children. Like many other women who have experienced recurrent miscarriage, I have run the gamut of emotions before, during and after each and every one of those pregnancies. Still, during my most recent, and perhaps happiest pregnancy, two new feelings inserted themselves during that time of waiting.

That memory in turn led to another question as the Bluey credits played, and my daughter clamored for one more episode: Brandy may not have visited, but did Chili fail to call? Did she slip away, as I did, neglecting to reach out, fearful that by trying to share updates about her children she may in fact bring even more pain to someone she so deeply loved? That by reveling in the joy she found in motherhood, she might in fact highlight for her sister what she dreamed of for herself but lacked?