She hung the sign while Norton, my husband, helped Evelyn arrange her stuffed animals.
“You’re going to give your speech first,” she told her elephant. “Then Bear-Bear, then Duck.”
“Don’t forget Bunny,” my husband said. He ruffled Evelyn’s curls, and she beamed at him, scrunching her nose.
“Bunny’s shy,” Evelyn whispered, tucking the plush against her side.
I watched them from the kitchen and felt something tug behind my ribs — the kind of tug you only get when you know what it costs to feel safe.
But it hadn’t always been this full; not in our house, and definitely not in our hearts. This time, five years ago, I was in a hospital bed for the third time in two years, bleeding into silence while Norton held my hand and told me it was okay to stop trying.
“We don’t need a baby to be whole, Chanel. It’s going to take some time for us to find our footing… but we’ll be just fine. I adore you for you.”
We grieved quietly, until the silence hardened. I stopped setting reminders for my cycle. Norton stopped asking about doctor visits. And we stopped talking about the nursery we’d once painted a soft blue.
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