Carter, my husband, stood beside me and nodded.
He even asked the doctor what he could do to help me recover.
I remember looking at him and thinking how lucky I was.
I was wrong.
The first few weeks were exhausting. Noah cried through the night, and I barely slept. I fed him, changed him, carried him, and sometimes fell asleep sitting upright in a chair.
Carter often slept in another room.
In the morning, he would come out looking irritated and say:
“I’m tired too, you know.”
Then, at the beginning of the sixth week, something changed.
One evening, I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror. My shirt had lifted slightly, and I could see my stomach.
It was still swollen and soft.
I barely recognized my body.
But it was the body that had carried our child.
Carter walked into the bathroom and stopped behind me.
