putting it into words.
The last time I allowed myself to talk openly about having another baby, I cried.
Not because I disliked our life.
Quite the opposite.
I loved our life enough to understand that there was one version of it I would never get to experience.
James took my hand.
“Our boys need their mother more than we need a daughter.”
He meant it.
And I believed him.
I thought that was the end of that chapter for the rest of our lives.
Then, 11 years into our marriage, I found my husband standing at the end of a maternity corridor with his coat still on and his eyes red.
I had never once seen that man cry.
There was a plastic bassinet in the room behind him.
I could see only the corner through the glass.
Something tiny moved beneath a pink blanket.
I stopped walking.
“James.”
