And that’s when I really break.
My body goes limp. The sobs won’t stop. It’s like my soul is being ripped out one jagged breath at a time. I didn’t know I could grieve this hard for something I never even held.
I pictured them.
A boy and a girl.
Names picked out.
Tiny jumpsuits hanging in the closet at home.
Gone.
All of it.
I start heaving—dry, choking spasms—and Colt lifts me, rushing me to the sink. I retch again and again, but nothing comes up.
“Fuck, Dee, I—” Colt starts, then cuts himself off.
I look at him through tear-swollen eyes.
He’s pale. Shaken. Hollowed out.
And that’s when it hits me—I’m not the only one who’s lost something today.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around his neck. “I’m sorry I didn’t have more eggs. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you this.”
He pulls me in tighter. “No. Dee, this isn’t your fault. It’s nobody’s fault. I swear to you, this doesn’t change a damn thing. If we adopt, if we foster, if we spend our lives raising a dozendogs instead of kids, I don’t care. I want you. That’s it. That’s always been it.”
I nod against him, my heart splitting in two.
He slides us back to the floor, and I curl into him, letting myself cry until there’s nothing left to give. An hour passes before I can stand.
Colt helps me to my feet, and we walk out to the waiting room where Anna and Johnny are seated. Anna sees me and starts crying again. Johnny wraps an arm around her as I step closer.
She stands.
“I love you for trying, Anna,” I say softly. “I’m not angry. I’m not upset with you. You tried to give us something, and I’llalwayslove you for that fact alone.”
She wipes her face and nods. “I know it’s not my fault, but I still feel responsible—”
“Don’t,” I interrupt gently. “This just… wasn’t meant to be.”
She pulls me into another hug.
“C’mon,” Colt says, wrapping an arm around me. “Let’s get out of here.”
We leave the clinic, and it feels like we’re walking through fog. The ride to Anna and Johnny’s is silent. When we drop them off, there’s no long goodbye. There are no more words left to say.
The five-minute drive home is quiet too.
Too quiet.
And maybe that’s when it finally settles in.
I willneverbe a mother.
Not now.
