The last time I let myself talk about it out loud, Owen took my hand across our kitchen table and said, “Our boys need their mother more than either of us needs a daughter.”
He meant every word of it. I believed him completely.
I thought that was the end of it, for the rest of both our lives.
Then, eleven years into our marriage, I found my husband standing at the end of a maternity ward hallway, his coat still on, his eyes red in a way I had genuinely never once seen on that man in over a decade together.
There was a plastic bassinet visible through the glass of the room behind him.
“I need you to sit down,” he said.
“Owen, tell me what I’m doing here.”
He looked at the floor for a long moment before he finally spoke again.
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