Megan - One Month later
Black Friday shopping has never been something I wanted to do.
But here I am, standing in the middle of Target at nine in the morning with a half-full cart already. When you’re in a family this big, Black Friday deals are practically lifesaving.
I push my cart down the home goods aisle, scanning for something—anything—that screams Maureen Jennings.
The store is packed. Strollers. Couples arguing over whether they need a new coffee maker. Teenagers clustered around the electronics section like it’s the biggest decision of their life.
I weave through them all, checking items off my list one by one. A heated blanket for Addison. A cookbook of slow cooker recipes for my mom. Some kind of tool thing for one of my brothers-in-law that I’ll have to ask Mason about later because I have no idea what it actually does.
By the time I make it to the toy section, my feet hurt and my patience is wearing thin.
I grab a baby doll for Emma. A set of plush rattles for Gage. Matching pink tutus for Cora and Hallie. And then I realize I need wrapping paper.
I turn my cart around and stop at the baby section; it cuts out a corner, I’ll get there faster, but I hesitate.
It’s fine. I’ll just walk fast, eyes forward, not looking.
But I can’t help it. Rows of tiny clothes. Onesies in every color. The little hats, and socks so small they look like doll accessories. And bows. Don’t even get me started on the bows.
My chest tightens, and suddenly I’m frozen in the middle of the aisle, staring at an outfit for a baby that I don’t have.
I force myself to move. One step. Then another. But everywhere I look, there’s more. Cribs. Changing tables. Bottles. Pacifiers. Diaper bags with cute patterns.
My throat burns. I grip the handle of my cart tighter and keep walking, faster now, past the nursery décor and the baby monitors, like they’re watching me. Judging me.
By the time I reach the wrapping paper, my hands are shaking.
I grab the first roll I see, a generic snowman pattern, and I shove three rolls into the cart without even checking the price. Then I head straight for the checkout.
The cashier is friendly. Too friendly. She comments on the candle I got Ella, asks if I’m done with my Christmas shopping, makes small talk I don’t really want to have.
I swipe my card, grab my bags, and walk out into the cold November air. I toss all the bags into the trunk and slide into the driver’s seat…and the second the silence comes, I lose it.
The tears come fast and hard, the kind that make your whole body shake. I don’t even try to stop them; it’s useless.
I can’t do this. I can’t keep pretending I’m fine when I’m not. Because this wasn’t supposed to be a problem. This was supposed to come easy for us.
We’re trying. We’ve been trying for almost five months and it’s not working.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder. I glance down through blurred vision.
Mason: How’s the shopping going?
I stare at the screen, debating whether to answer. My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I don’t know what to say.
Fine. Terrible. I just had a breakdown in Target because I saw baby hair bows.But before I can decide, it rings, Mason’s name and picture taking over my screen.
I almost don’t answer. But I know if I don’t, he’ll worry. So I swipe to accept and bring the phone to my ear.
“Hey,” I manage, voice cracking immediately.
“Hey?” His tone shifts instantly. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” He pauses. “Where are you?”
