After ten years, six miscarriages, and more disappointments than either of us could bear, my husband and I had almost given up hope of ever bringing a baby home.
So when our daughter was finally born healthy, crying, and perfect, I thought the worst was over.
I made a mistake…
Caleb and I had set ourselves a rule during the pregnancy: not to celebrate too soon.
No hay baby shower
Maternity photos are not allowed
No countdown on social media
After six defeats, hope had become something dangerous.
When I was twenty weeks old, my sister offered to buy us a crib.
—Not yet—I told him.
At thirty weeks, Caleb discreetly broke our rule.
One night I woke up and found him assembling a crib at midnight.
“You’ve broken the rule,” I whispered.
He looked at the half-finished cradle.
“Return it if you want.”
I didn’t do it
Neither of them said what they were thinking.
Perhaps this baby was going to come home after all.
Yesterday morning, I woke Caleb up at 5:12.
“I think it’s happening.”
He shot from a standing position
“I’ve been having contractions for two hours.”
“Did you wait two hours?”
“I wanted to be sure.”
He panicked so much that he put on two different shoes.
I laughed
It was the first time in months that I laughed with real carelessness about this pregnancy
Hours later, everything changed.
Around midnight, the delivery room was suddenly filled with nurses. The doctor began giving instructions. Caleb was beside me, his expression a mixture of terror and amazement.
And then I heard it.
Crying
It’s not mine
To the water
Our daughter had arrived.
His scream was loud, furious, and wonderfully vibrant.
Caleb rested his forehead against mine.
“She is here.”
I started to sob
“She really is here.”
A nurse briefly placed her against my chest before taking her to the warming area for routine checks.
Alright?
“He’s doing wonderfully.”
Caleb remained undecided between the baby and me.
—Go see her—I told him.
He approached
From where I was lying down, I couldn’t see much of our daughter.
But I could see Caleb’s expression.
She was crying openly.
Then he leaned closer.
“Oh, wow.”
That?
He glanced at me sideways.
“It has this small mark.”
What type?
“Dark. Oval. Near the collarbone. It looks as if someone pressed a thumb on fresh paint.”
Continued on the next page
