And:
“How is Margaret?”
I began keeping a notebook.
On one page, I wrote Liam’s measurements.
On another, I wrote down questions for the doctors.
On another, I wrote letters.
Letters to Thomas.
Letters to my children.
And one letter to Emily.
I didn’t know if anyone would ever read them.
But writing made me feel less helpless.
One evening, I sat alone in the nursery.
The crib was already assembled.
Tiny clothes were folded inside the dresser.
Thomas had painted one wall a soft blue.
I placed my hand over my stomach.
Liam kicked.
I smiled.
“Your sister would have loved you.”
I paused.
Then whispered:
“I wish she could meet you.”
The baby kicked again.
I laughed.
“Was that your answer?”
For the first time, I wasn’t afraid of the future.
I was simply determined to reach it.
At thirty-seven weeks, the doctors decided it was time.
The delivery plan was carefully discussed.
