Liar.
After the doctor’s warning, I packed away the newborn things.
Most of them belonged to the boys, but there were little neutral sleepers, blankets, bottles, and a bassinet sheet my mother had embroidered.
I said we should donate them.
James said next month.
Next month became six months.
Then a year.
The box remained in the garage.
Every time I suggested giving it away, he’d say, “Not today.”
Eventually, I stopped asking.
That’s what closing a subject looks like when it isn’t really closed.
You simply stop putting it into words.
The last time I allowed myself to talk openly about having another baby, I cried.
Not because I disliked our life.
Quite the opposite.
I loved our life enough to understand that there was one version of it I would never get to experience.
James took my hand.
“Our boys need their mother more than we need a daughter.”
He meant it.
And I believed him.
I thought that was the end of that chapter for the rest of our lives.
Then, 11 years into our marriage, I found my husband standing at the end of a maternity corridor with his coat still on and his eyes red.
I had never once seen that man cry.
There was a plastic bassinet in the room behind him.
I could see only the corner through the glass.
Something tiny moved beneath a pink blanket.
