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He didn’t argue. What could he say?
The miscarriages came one after another.
Each one felt faster than the last, colder somehow.
The third one happened while I was folding baby clothes. I’d bought them on sale, couldn’t help myself.
I was holding a onesie with a duck on the front when I felt that familiar, terrible warmth.
My husband was kind and patient, but the losses were taking their toll on our relationship.
I could see the quiet fear in his eyes every time I said, “Maybe next time.”
He was afraid for me, afraid of me and my pain, afraid of what all this wanting was doing to us both.
After the fifth miscarriage, the doctor stopped using hopeful language. He sat across from me in his sterile office with its cheerful prints of babies on the wall.
“Some bodies just… don’t cooperate,” he said gently. “There are other options.”
John slept that night, and I envied him that peace. I couldn’t find it anywhere.
I crept out of bed.
I sat alone on the cold bathroom floor with my back against the bathtub. The coolness felt right somehow. Fitting. I stared at the grout between the tiles and counted the cracks.
It was the darkest point of my life. I was desperate, drowning, and so I reached for something to end my sorrows.
I prayed out loud for the first time in my life.
“Dear God, please… if You give me a child… I promise I’ll save one too. If I become a mom, I will give a home to a child who has none.”
The words hung in the air, and I felt… nothing.
“Do you even hear me?” I sobbed.
I never told John. Not even when I got an answer to that prayer.
Ten months later, Stephanie was born screaming and pink, and furious at the world.
She came out fighting, demanding, alive in a way that took my breath away.
John and I sobbed as we clung to each other, enveloping our little girl in all the love we’d waited so long to share with her.
Joy consumed me, but memory sat quietly beside it.