Chapter 1 - The Rule We Made
After Ten Years Of Heartbreak, Our Baby Girl Arrived Safe At Last—Then Marcus Saw Her Shoulder, Went White, And Breathed, "No... That's Impossible"
Ten years. Six miscarriages. More grief than the two of us knew how to carry between us.
By the time I got pregnant that last spring, my husband and I had almost given up on the idea of ever carrying a car seat through our own front door. So when our daughter was finally born healthy, I thought the worst was behind us. I was wrong.
Marcus and I had exactly one rule for this pregnancy: no celebrating early.
No baby shower. No maternity photos in some golden field. No cheerful week-by-week countdown for relatives to click "like" on.
We had learned the hard way that hope could turn on you.
At twenty weeks, my younger sister called and asked if she could buy us a crib.
"Not yet," I told her.
At thirty weeks, I got up for a glass of water and found Marcus sitting on the nursery floor at midnight, surrounded by wooden slats and a folded instruction sheet, tightening a screw by the light of his phone.
"You broke the rule," I said from the doorway.
He looked up at the half-built crib, then back at me, and gave a small shrug. "Return it if it bothers you."
I didn't return it.
That was about as close as either of us ever came to saying out loud that we thought this baby might actually make it.
Yesterday morning, I shook his shoulder at 5:12. "Marcus. Wake up. I think this is it."
He sat straight up like the mattress had shocked him. "It—now? Are you sure?"
"I've been having contractions since three."
"Since three? And you let me sleep?"
"I wanted to be sure first."
May you like
He stared at me for a second, then swung his legs out of bed and started pulling on shoes. It wasn't until we were halfway to the car that I noticed one foot had a brown loafer and the other had a running shoe.
I laughed. Actually laughed. It was the first time in months either of us had laughed about anything connected to this baby.
