Colder.
The third happened while I was folding baby clothes I’d bought on sale because I couldn’t help myself.
I was holding a tiny onesie with a duck on the front when I felt that familiar, terrible warmth.
John was patient.
But I could see fear starting to live behind his eyes.
Fear of losing me to my grief.
Fear of what all this wanting was doing to us.
After the fifth miscarriage, the doctor stopped sounding optimistic.
He sat across from me under cheerful baby prints on the wall and said gently, “Some bodies just… don’t cooperate.”
That night, John slept.
I envied him that peace.
I couldn’t find it anywhere.
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