Long before motherhood was even possible, she gathered small signs of it. She saved nursery designs on her phone. She kept a box of baby clothes hidden under our bed for years, as if hoping the universe might take the hint. Whenever friends announced pregnancies, she celebrated sincerely, sent gifts, and later retreated into silence. I’d often find her splashing cold water on her face, blaming allergies instead of tears.
After we married, we tried to have a child. Not casually—completely. Our lives revolved around calendars, clinic visits, injections, apps, and endless “maybe this time” optimism. Eight long years of hoping.
We lost two pregnancies early. Two tiny beginnings that existed just long enough to change everything before disappearing. Megan didn’t fall apart loudly. She simply grew quieter, folding her grief inward where no one else could touch it.
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