“We went in at 11 weeks to find his heart had stopped. We were done… Crushed, confused, and heartbroken. We took a break from it all and almost through in the towel. But we knew we had one embryo left. If we didn’t try it, we would have to discard it and there was no way we could do that.”
“‘Shall we put these up on the fridge when we get home?,” I asked. You paused, reluctant to answer me. ‘No, I don’t want to.’ You said quietly, your usually steady voice shaking a little.”
“I was single and 27 when the tug of foster care came.”
“On a whim, he filled out the application to be a contestant on the show. Several rounds of interviews later, and he was flying out to Los Angeles to have a final interview and find out if he would get to play for $25,000. Well, he did! And he won! Aaron’s phone rang 3 weeks later. ‘Holly, I got THE call. They have a match for us. When can you come home? They want to talk to both of us.’”
“In my 20s, I watched all my friends marry and have babies. I saw their lives unfolding while mine was stuck. I felt like guys could somehow sense my ‘barrenness’. Like somehow other girls gave off some mysterious appeal I couldn’t. I knew infertility would one day rear its ugly head. I was an old soul trapped in a young body.”
“I was not the mother to make this kind of error. The mother who looked away. ‘If he’s alive, he’d be kicking, fighting.’ Why wasn’t he fighting? I pulled him onto the cement and thrusted my hand against his back. Fingernails pink, skin pale, lips discolored. His white knuckles gripped my neck. ‘ANDREW. Andrew, please come back to me.'”
“I decided to write Peyton a letter before he left. I needed to get out all of the things I wanted to say to him – the good and the bad. I’m sorry we took the easy way out. I wish we would have fought harder for you.”
“I notice the cashier’s name is Grace. I smile because I love seeing any part of my daughter’s name. It’s like a little wink from her and I know she’s okay. ‘How are you doing today?’ the cashier asks. ‘I’m good,’ I say, only half lying.”
“He will never bring home homework. He will never miss the bus. He will never forget his lunch money. We will never meet his teacher. We miss them all. Our son never finished PreK.”
“If you had waited another day, I think you’d be dead,’ my doctor said. At that point, I realized how serious this was. I had put it off, trying to fight how I felt with Tylenol.”
