Chapter 16 - THE MORNING OF THE SURGERY
Six months after the hallway, Sophie’s scans were clear.
Not forever clear.
Today clear.
We learned to respect today.
We also learned reconciliation was not a victory parade.
Some weeks were ugly.
She accused me of shutting down when I was simply tired.
Sometimes she was right.
I panicked whenever she felt sick.
Sometimes I was wrong.
Once, I drove her to the emergency room because she had food poisoning.
She was furious.
Then threw up in my truck.
We called it a draw.
Rachel stopped hating me.
Mostly.
My mother apologized to Sophie for keeping the letter.
Sophie apologized for putting her in that position.
Then Mom told both of us never to make her the keeper of another marital secret.
Fair.
One Sunday, Sophie and I went back to the cemetery where we had placed a small memorial stone for the babies.
Three names.
Benjamin.
Grace.
And Hope.
Hope had been the third pregnancy.
I had not known the name.
Sophie touched the stone.
“I named her after the biopsy.”
“Why Hope?”
“Because I was angry.”
I frowned.
“That makes no sense.”
“It made sense then.”
We stood quietly.
Then I said the thing I had avoided for years.
“I miss them.”
Sophie took my hand.
“I know.”
“No.”
I looked at the stone.
“I miss people I never got to meet.”
Her fingers tightened.
“I know.”
I cried.
She did too.
Nothing was fixed.
Something was finally shared.
On the drive home, Sophie asked, “Do you ever think about being a father?”
“Every day.”
She looked out the window.
“I don’t know what my body can do anymore.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t want my body to decide whether we get a family.”
I glanced at her.
She looked terrified.
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying maybe there are other doors.”
That night, we opened a foster-care information website.
We did not apply.
We just looked.
May you like
Sometimes looking is the first brave thing.
