• The lego blocks were all tumbled together in their carry case, little pieces of toys that everyone forgot about but simply could not do without all thrown together. They crash and slosh like a mini ocean between my spread out arms, weighted from the sheer amount of the tiny pieces that generate one heavy plastic box.

    The lid is gray. I can hear all the colourful pieces rustling as I tip slowly down the stairs, trying desperately not to fall. It's a part of a condemned childhood, and unfortunately, I'll never get to see the child these playthings all belong to again. We're storing his things because his grandparents are moving. They promise, they swear up and down they're going to be back for these things. Just another lie, but nowadays we expect it.

    My husband and I finish moving the last two boxes of children's books to the basement together, a silent reminder of things not yet done, but already forgotten. His parents get back into their vehicle and drive off, no good-byes. It hurts too much to think about the contents of all those boxes. What they mean, and the people that have hurt each other so much they can't take reminders of happier times together.

    Later, I bring him a drink. We've already stored everything we need to store, now it's a waiting game. He's on the computer, starting to write an e-mail to one of his best friends about our sudden lack of space. We both stare silently for a while at the boxes, packed full of children things. They sit right there, right across the room, stacked up like someone took the time to sort properly.

    "They're not going to let us see him again, will they?" He asked me, and I shrugged.

    "Depends on what the courts decide. Probably not, though. They'll probably favor the mother's family, since they're the ones that have been taking care of him so far."

    He slapped the glass back down on the desk. "It's not right," he muttered, his normally gay and light eyes darkened with outrage and pain. I moved towards him, then away. It's a strange role reversal, me trying to comfort him. Normally he's much stronger than me, but it comes down to children in his family, he's in the same condition as the glass. Cracked.

    He stood, paced a few steps, then returned to his seat. His mood was only getting bleaker, and I couldn't see a way to make it better. There is no way to make such a thing better; no reconciliations will help by this point. In this case, reconciliation brought on retaliation, and it just made things worse.

    "When ours is born, we can make use of some of these things," I suggested as gently as I could. "We could have the baby's room ready before it's born, even, with all these things."

    So much pain and fear in one person. "You really don't believe they'll let us visit," he muttered, and threw up his hands and resumed writing his letter to his friend. He had effectively turned his back on me and the conversation we were having.

    "Dear, they've already refused at all the major holidays, and we were asked to leave at his last birthday, for the three minutes we were in the door. Long enough to give him a gift, but not even long enough for him to remember us. We're not allowed to be part of his life."

    He turned to face me again. "Our baby- it's never going to know it's cousin. He's never going to get to know our child. It's so wrong." There were tears in his eyes, as well as mine. I sat on his lap, and he cradled me in his arms, his hands lightly brushing my stomach.

    "I know, dear. We tried. We just- can't do anything about this."