After a decade, six miscarriages, and more heartbreak than either of us knew how to bear, my husband and I had nearly given up believing we would ever take a baby home. So when our daughter finally arrived healthy, I believed the hardest thing that could happen was already behind us. I was wrong.
My husband, Caleb, and I had made one rule for this pregnancy: we would not celebrate too soon.
No baby shower. No pregnancy pictures. No happy countdown posted on social media.
When I made it to twenty weeks, my sister asked whether she could buy us a crib.
After six miscarriages over ten years, allowing ourselves to hope had begun to feel dangerous.
When I made it to twenty weeks, my sister asked whether she could buy us a crib.
“Not yet,” I said.
By thirty weeks, Caleb secretly ordered one anyway.
I discovered him putting it together at midnight.
“You broke the rule,” I told him.
That was about as close as either of us got to acknowledging that we believed this baby might truly make it.
He glanced at the partially assembled crib and shrugged.
“Return it if you want.”
I didn’t.
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