Shut up, Jack. Please just shut up.
“Wasn’t meant to be, I guess.”
Meant to be?
“Please, Jack. Please just stop talking.”
He must’ve taken my desperate plea to heart. Because he stopped. Completely.
He asked how I was feeling once or twice over the next week.
But other than that, we never talked about the baby again.
He got busy at work, joined a marathon team, and life continued as normal.
For him. Just for him.
Curled into the armrest of our couch, I clutched a heating pad to my belly, eyelids still swollen from the ordeal. This one was quick, five hours tops. Thirteen weeks gestation.
The doctors said I had an abnormal uterus which caused the loss of viable pregnancies. The only fix was surgery. One not covered by insurance. A miracle was possible, but certainly not guaranteed.
Jack was desperate to repair me. And I was desperate to repair us. My delusion was thick. I thought a baby would be our savior. So we tried again.
I was inconsolable when the bleeding started.
But no arm came around my shoulders. There was no chest to collapse into. No one held me or shouldered the burden.
Our third baby came and went. No one knew. No one except Jack.
The pain in my heart would’ve been more bearable if he didn’t know. It would be less painful to suffer alone, than to have a partner and still suffer alone. After it was over, he tucked a blanket around me and made sure I had a few things—like the remote and ibuprofen. Then worked a twelve hour shift.
As the weeks rolled by, Jack became more and more scarce. Because suddenly the department was short-staffed. Or there was a work situation. Or he needed a run. Or there was a race coming up he had to train for. Or his buddies wanted another night out.
He was anywhere but home. With anyone but me.
He told me our family might take more time. That we’d be okay with just each other. That we need to move on.
And I honestly hated him for it.
The only way we had been able to somewhat hold our marriage together was to pretend to be okay. Jack couldn’t handle my pain, so I said I was fine. And so did he.
THIRTY-FOUR
Jack
Igot home late. The house was mostly dark, except for the front window. Miranda must’ve been waiting for me in the living room. I dreaded this all day. I didn’t want to talk to her. My brain bounced from so furious I could punch through the wall to so distraught I wanted to drive straight back to work.
Work and the gym were the only two places I could get lost—forget that I’d missed four years of my son’s life. Forget that Miranda, the woman I loved, kept him from me.
I sighed, doing my best to tamp down the conflict in my chest, and unlocked the door.
As I suspected, Miranda sat on the couch, TV off. She glanced over her shoulder at me, eyes bloodshot, and I felt my heart squeeze.
I avoided her for this exact reason.
I didn’t want to see her cry.
Regret pooled in my belly. Stupid. She was the one who messed everything up, yet here I was, feeling sorry.
