Medical appointments.
Therapy.
Money.
School.
People judging us.
The possibility that our lives would never look the way we had planned.
I was exhausted after nearly seventeen hours of labor, and every frightening sentence seemed heavier than the last.
By sunrise, I barely recognized myself.
Then a hospital social worker entered the room.
She had several documents in her hands.
Brian had already spoken with her.
That was the first thing that felt wrong.
“How long have you been discussing this?” I asked him.
He avoided my eyes.
“We’re just looking at options.”
The social worker carefully explained that arrangements could be made for our son.
My hands began shaking.
Brian leaned closer.
“We can still have children someday.”
I stared at him.
Still have children.
