For parents of lost babies and potential of all kinds: we want to be a glow through the trees. Stumble up the steps, shake off the snow and the crust and the stiffness. There's a bunch of us by a crackling fire, offering you a hot mug or wine and whoopie pies or whatever else warms you up. Sink into a battered old sofa, tuck your feet under your legs, a woodsmokey quilt around your shoulders, and be with us.

One of us, only half-joking, said this will be a place where us medusas can take off our hats, none minding the sight of all the snakes. Because not only can we bear the sight of each other—we crave it.

Babylost mothers and fathers, this place is yours.