Corinne and I had spent years trying to become parents. Endless doctor’s appointments. Painful treatments. Heartbreaking disappointments. Three miscarriages left scars neither of us fully healed from, even years later.
I tried to be strong for her, but there were nights I’d find her sitting alone in the kitchen, hands resting on her stomach, quietly talking to the child we hoped would someday actually arrive and stay.
So when she became pregnant again, and our doctor finally told us it was safe to feel optimistic, we allowed ourselves, carefully, to dream.
Every milestone felt miraculous. The first kick. The way she laughed, balancing a bowl of cereal on her growing belly some mornings. The evenings I read bedtime stories out loud to her stomach, half-convinced our baby could somehow already hear me.
By the time her due date arrived, our families were ready to celebrate. We’d invested our hearts, our hopes, our exhausted prayers into this exact moment.
Then came the delivery.
