Then one afternoon I found “Clara” written on the back of a grocery receipt beside several possible middle names.
When I confronted him, he claimed he had been testing a pen.
I called him a liar.
After the doctor’s warning, I packed away our baby things.
Neutral sleepers.
Blankets.
Bottles.
A bassinet sheet my mother had embroidered years earlier.
“We should donate these,” I said.
“Next month,” James answered.
Next month became six months.
Then a year.
The box remained in our garage.
Every time I suggested getting rid of it, James said, “Not today.”
Eventually, neither of us mentioned it anymore.
That’s how some dreams end.
Not with a dramatic goodbye.
You simply stop saying them aloud.
The last time I cried about never having another child, James held my hand and said something that finally allowed me to let go.
“Our boys need their mother more than we need a daughter.”
He was right.
And I thought that was the end of the story.
Eleven years into our marriage, however, I walked into a maternity ward and saw James standing at the end of a corridor with red eyes.
I had almost never seen my husband cry.
Behind him, through the glass wall of a hospital room, was a bassinet.
Something tiny moved beneath a pink blanket.
I stopped walking.
“James.”
He looked at me.
“I need you to sit down.”
