For three months, I’d wondered why the man who’d wanted a child so desperately could barely look at her.
In eleven years of marriage, Mark had remembered appointments, warmed my car, and called at lunch just to hear my voice.
When he came home, he used to find me in whatever room I was in, just to tell me something ordinary about his day. The silence now felt like living with a stranger.
When doctors told us I couldn’t safely carry a pregnancy, he held me while I cried.
“We can still be parents. There are children who need us.”
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