During our first year together, we talked about children constantly.
Michael wanted a boy who would play baseball with him. I wanted a little girl whose hair I could braid before school. We even argued playfully about names.
“Daniel,” Michael insisted one evening.
“Grace,” I replied.
“What if we have twins?”
“Then you can name one, and I’ll name the other.”
He laughed, pulled me into his arms, and kissed my forehead.
“We’ll have a whole house full of children, Sarah. Just wait.”
I believed him.
For the first two years, we did not worry when I failed to become pregnant. We were young, and everyone told us there was plenty of time.
By the third year, I began counting the days of my menstrual cycle.
By the fourth, I bought pregnancy tests in different pharmacies because I was embarrassed to keep buying them at the same store.
Every month ended with the same disappointment.
