When they ask, we usually tell people we have two children. Sometimes, when we sense it may cause them discomfort, we just say we have a boy.

When we explain that our daughter Emma died before she was born, people always feel bad. I assume it’s because they think we feel bad. But we don’t. The pain has faded over the past 5 years. It lingers still, but we’re just happy for the chance to talk about her.

Each year we quietly observe Emma's birthday on May 7. A few people send us their love — the same people we leaned on in our grief. I fight each year to remember holding Emma after she was born. It felt like a few moments. Nothing made sense.

I wish I could have smiled down at her. But I was crying. I leaned over and rested her on Jess’s chest. I was shaking and sobbing. When I close my eyes now, I try to focus on her warm skin, tiny fingers, button nose, the thin hair matted atop her perfect little head.

When her features escape me, I remember during the pregnancy how she kicked in Jess’s belly each time I picked up the guitar. I like to think she’d be listening to live music with us if she were here today.

I say all this because I’ve never had anyone ask me what she was like. When they find out she’s dead, they look away. Their voices get soft as if to apologize for reminding us that our daughter is gone. Please, don’t feel that way. Know that you’ve given us that one chance each month to talk about our two children.

After Emma, we learned a lot about stillbirth, especially how little attention and resources are dedicated to understanding and preventing it. That’s why -- since 2017 -- we ask around this time of year that you remember our daughter with a donation to advance research and awareness.

And to the many friends and family who continue to be there for our family of four, we love you.