I drove to the hospital wearing the same old shirt I had been cleaning in, with my hair tied up and my hands still smelling faintly of lemon soap.
You have to understand what the word baby meant in our house.
James and I had three sons—nine, seven, and four.
They were loud, messy, exhausting, hilarious, and absolutely everything to us. But before we even had our first child, I had dreamed about having a daughter.
I had chosen her name when I was nineteen.
After our third son was born, however, that dream ended.
My doctor asked James to sit beside me while she explained the results of my tests. She didn’t say another pregnancy might be dangerous. She said it would probably kill me.
And even if I survived, I would likely spend most of the pregnancy hospitalized, away from the three little boys who already depended on me.
I asked whether there was any safe option.
She said no.
Over the next two years, I asked again twice.
The answer never changed.
Eventually, James held my hand one night and said something I will never forget.
“Our boys need their mother more than we need a daughter.”
I cried, but I knew he was right.
We stopped talking about it after that.
Still, James kept one small cardboard box in the garage.
Inside were newborn blankets, tiny socks, and a yellow knitted hat my mother had made years ago.
Every time I suggested donating everything, James would say, “Maybe next month.”
Eventually, I stopped asking.
That was how we buried the dream.
Not completely.
Just deeply enough that we could pretend it was gone.
Eleven years into our marriage, I walked into the maternity wing of the hospital and saw James standing at the far end of the corridor. His coat was still on. His eyes were red.
