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Jenny died soon after birth.  It was a loss to her parents, and somewhat, to her older brothers.  But, if truth be known, not so much a loss for them.  They were too young - too young to know her.  They were too young to know how much she had been wanted, and how much she was missed.

 

The only daughter in a midst of men. 

 

It was a preference.  Janet had always wanted a daughter but none had come.  She should be grateful for her three strong sons, but a daughter was her dream.

 

Janet dreamed of a pretty girl; one that she could dress up in the way that her parents could not afford to.  Not that John and Janet were rich.  John worked hard and provided; the way men should do.  Another mouth to feed when Jenny came along.  Despite his moaning he was secretly delighted too.

 

John and Janet could not afford much but Janet was determined that Jenny would be the picture of perfection.  And she was. 

 

But it was a snapshot.

 

Jenny died in infancy, a common thing, a common grief.

 

It was a grief Janet never got over.

 

Buried.

 

Buried in her heart.

 

The boys were sorry, but did not really understand.

 

Such is life.

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