because there was nothing new to hear.
We had already chosen a name.
Or rather, I had.
I’d had it since I was 19.
Clara.
James pretended he wasn’t attached to it.
But once, years earlier, I found him writing the name on the back of a grocery receipt beside a list of possible middle names.
He claimed he was testing pens.
Liar.
After the doctor’s warning, I packed away the newborn things.
Most of them belonged to the boys, but there were little neutral sleepers, blankets, bottles, and a bassinet sheet my mother had embroidered.
I said we should donate them.
James said next month.
Next month became six months.
Then a year.
The box remained in the garage.
Every time I suggested giving it away, he’d say, “Not today.”
Eventually, I stopped asking.
That’s what closing a subject looks like when it isn’t really closed.
You simply stop
