After ten years, six miscarriages, and more heartbreak than Caleb and I knew how to carry, we had almost stopped believing we would ever bring a baby home. So when our daughter was finally born healthy, I thought the worst was over.
I was wrong.
Caleb and I had made one rule for this pregnancy: no celebrating too soon. There would be no baby shower, no maternity pictures, no countdown posts online, and no nursery filled with clothes for a baby we were still terrified we might lose.
After six miscarriages, hope had started to feel dangerous.
When I reached twenty weeks, my sister offered to buy us a crib.
“Not yet,” I told her.
At thirty weeks, I discovered Caleb assembling one in the nursery at midnight.
“You broke our rule.”
He glanced at the half-built crib.
“Return it if you want.”
I didn’t.
Neither of us said it out loud, but that crib was the first sign that we were beginning to believe this baby might actually stay.
