This Sunday I will light a candle for a child who will never be born. I don't know what this child looks like, whether it is a girl or a boy. I just know that for the past two years, I made Christmas puddings around stir-up Sunday, and dreamed of one day taking turns stirring the puddings--the three of us--me, her, and our child. The one part of this child I can picture clearly is its arms, stirring the pudding, before we wrap it up for Christmas. I can't tell anyone I am mourning this child. I tried to tell someone, and she said I was being melodramatic, looking for ways to make myself miserable. Maybe she is right. I don't care. I'll simply keep it a secret. In any case, I intend to light a candle in memory of the dream of its life, which will remain forever unfulfilled. Although I am not a religious man, and do not even believe in any gods, I will pray to God to protect its soul--although a child which has never even been conceived probably has no soul. Somewhere, in a parallel universe far away from ours, that Christmas pudding recipe will go on getting better every year, to be passed down one day to a new generation. But in this universe, I am finished with this dream. It is over.