I had just given my husband the son he’d wanted for eight years when he saw something on our newborn. His smile vanished — and seconds later, he accused me of cheating.
The ceiling tiles of the maternity ward blurred above me as I counted my breaths, my body wrung out from twelve hours of labor. Somewhere down the hall, a baby cried, and my arms already ached to hold mine. Five pregnancies in eight years had taught me exactly what that emptiness felt like.
My husband, Aaron, paced near the window, phone in hand, grinning like a boy on Christmas morning.
At home, our four wonderful girls — Lily, Grace, Chloe, and little Ava — were eagerly waiting to meet their new baby brother.
“Your sister Diana just texted,” he said. “The girls made a banner. Even Ava tried to help — apparently she mostly ate the crayons.”
I laughed, and it hurt in the best way.
“Lily promised Grace she’d let her hold him first,” he added. “Chloe wants to know if he’s coming home tonight.”
He came to the side of the bed and squeezed my hand so tightly my knuckles pressed together. I could feel him vibrating.
“I told you, Elena. I told you this one was mine.”
“You know what I mean.”
I did. Four daughters had been enough for me long before this pregnancy, but I’d stopped saying it once I realized how badly Aaron wanted a son. It was easier to smile when he talked about trying again than to watch the disappointment cross his face.
I remembered the hospital room after Ava — our fourth daughter, pink and squalling in my arms — and Aaron kissing her forehead before whispering, not unkindly, “Next time.” I remembered the small room at the end of the hall he’d painted slate blue three years ago, the wooden train set already waiting on the shelf.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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