It was just another Saturday, a sharp reminder of what I didn’t have. My best friend’s daughter was turning six, and the living room overflowed with balloons, laughter, and sticky little hands darting past me. Parents chased kids with plates and juice boxes. I stood there with a paper cup of punch, smiling like it didn’t sting.
For years, I’d imagined moments like this in my own home—cutting cake for a child, buying tiny shoes, tucking someone in at night. But my reality had been endless doctor visits, failed tests, needles, calendars full of “nothing,” and the crushing silence of disappointment.
Julian, my husband, always soothed me. He held me in the kitchen while I cried, stroked my hair, whispered, “It’ll happen when the time is right.” Sometimes he believed it, sometimes I didn’t. But I clung to his words because I had nothing else.
That afternoon, I couldn’t fake the smile. I slipped outside, needing air. The sun dipped low, painting gold across the driveway. Then I heard laughter—Julian’s.
He stood with friends, beer in hand, easy and careless. I hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but his words cut through the quiet.
“Why don’t you guys just adopt? You can see the sadness in her eyes. It’s painful.”
Continue reading on next page…