“So I went home and did the only useful thing I could think of.”
“I started a dress.”
I stopped.
The garden blurred.
I remembered the conversation.
I had been 34.
Two years into trying.
We had just learned our first round of fertility treatment had failed.
I hadn’t told most people.
But I’d told Grandma.
We sat in her kitchen.
I said, “Maybe this just isn’t going to happen for me.”
Grandma had reached across the table and said, “Maybe. But today isn’t every day.”
That was all.
She hadn’t told me to relax.
Hadn’t said it would happen when I stopped trying.
Hadn’t promised me a miracle.
Just:
Today isn’t every day.
Apparently, afterward, she had gone home and started sewing.
I kept reading.
“I did not make it because I knew you would have a baby.
“I made it because hope needs somewhere to sit while it waits.”
