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Then, months later, I received the phone call that nearly made my knees give out.
I was pregnant.
I sat down on the kitchen floor and started crying.
Thomas rushed in.
“What happened?”
I simply showed him the result.
For several seconds, he just stared at it.
Then he knelt beside me and began crying too.
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We knew the pregnancy would be considered high-risk.
The doctors had warned us.
But the weeks passed.
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Twelve weeks.
Sixteen.
Twenty.
Twenty-four.
The baby kept developing normally.
And I felt better than anyone expected.
We were having a boy.
For the first time since losing Emily, I allowed myself to imagine a future again.
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Then came the appointment that was supposed to be completely routine.
Thomas sat beside me while the ultrasound technician moved the probe across my stomach.
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“There’s your little boy,” she said.
