I stood at the foot of the hospital bed, watching her cradle the newborn like a fragile miracle. The fluorescent lights softened around us, and I could hear her whispering to our baby—tiny words that trembled with gratitude. “Ethan,” she said between sobs, “we did it. We finally have our miracle.”
I smiled, but my stomach twisted so hard it almost made me sick. Because I knew something she didn’t.
Three years ago, after our third miscarriage, I’d made a decision I never told her about. I got a vasectomy. Quietly, without drama. Without telling her, without even a trace in the insurance records. I told myself it was mercy—on her, on us. Watching her fall apart again and again after every failed pregnancy had been unbearable. She wanted to keep trying; I couldn’t watch her destroy herself. So I stopped the possibility altogether.
And now here she was, holding …
Continue reading on the next page >>>
