Our first child was a daughter. We called her Joyce, so that we could call her Joy. She lived for a few hours.
I will not write much about it. I have found, over the years, that the griefs you can write about are not the worst ones. This one I can write about only this far: that I held her, and that she was beautiful, and that for those hours I was happier than I had known it was possible to be. Marilla was there. Leslie had made the little dress she wore.
Afterwards everyone was kind, and some of the kindness was harder to bear than the loss. People told me it was God’s will, and that I was young and would have others. Both of these things may have been true. Neither of them had anything to do with Joyce.
It was Captain Jim, in the end, who helped most, by not trying to. He came and sat, and talked about the harbour and the weather, and let me be sad in front of him without once suggesting I should stop.
A year later our son was born. We named him James Matthew — James for Captain Jim, Matthew for Matthew — and he was Jem from the first week. I loved him with my whole heart. But I have never stopped counting Joyce among my children, and I count her here.