People around us glanced inquisitively between us, some of them thinking she was referencing our other daughter's middle name being a fruit, but I understood. She was referring to those phone applications that people use to track their progress. They'll say, "Today baby Nowak is the size of an asian pear!" or "Today baby Nowak is the size of a pomegranate!"
The answer flooded me, having nothing to do with Portia, or her sister, Charlotte Pear. I don't have one of those applications for Portia, but that didn't change my answer.
I know what size Portia is this week.
I know that her head barely fits in the palm of her dada's hand, and I know how her tiny fingers curl. I know how her mouth would open as you tilted her head back, pixie lips parting gently. She's about a foot long. She's around twenty ounces in weight.
I've held a Nowak baby at twenty-five weeks. I know what size she is.
I could never be upset by the unexpected reminder of my son. There was no pain in the memory, when the answer came to me. Twenty-five weeks will always be the week that I gave birth to a dead child, and I'm not angry to remember him. In fact, I'm thankful that he lived, even though he died.