He’d say, “Next month.”
We have three boys. Nine, seven and four. Loud, filthy, wonderful.
After the third one, my doctor sat us both down — she asked Marcus to come in and hear it from her instead of from me. She used the word probably. Not “there’s a risk.” Not “it could be difficult.”
She said a fourth pregnancy would probably kill me. And that if it didn’t, I’d spend most of it in a hospital bed, away from the three children I already have.
I asked if there was any version where it was safe. She said no. I asked her twice more over the next two years, in different words. The answer never changed.
We wanted a daughter. God, we wanted one. I’ve had the name picked out since I was nineteen.
Marcus never said much about it. He just kept that box.
The last time I let myself bring it up, he took my hand and said, “Our boys need their mother more than we need a daughter.”
