Then I would wake up.
Sweating.
Heart pounding.
And staring into the darkness beside my sleeping husband.
At first, I told myself it was grief.
Nothing more.
But the dream came again.
And again.
And again.
Eventually, I stopped telling myself it meant nothing.
One morning, I sat at the kitchen table while Thomas made coffee.
He looked at me.
“You didn’t sleep again.”
I shook my head.
He placed a mug in front of me.
“Same dream?”
I stared at the coffee.
“Yes.”
He didn’t ask what happened.
He already knew.
He had heard me talking in my sleep.
He had seen me wake up crying.
After a long silence, I finally said the words I had been terrified to say.
“I want another baby.”
Thomas froze.
The kitchen suddenly felt completely silent.
He slowly put down the coffee pot.
“Margaret…”
“I know.”
“You’re sixty.”
“I know.”
“I’m sixty-seven.”
