That was the part people sometimes misunderstand about grief.
You can be overwhelmingly grateful for your life and still mourn the life you won’t have.
Carter leaned across the center console and wiped my face.
“We’re done,” he said.
I cried harder.
He immediately corrected himself.
“Not done with life. Done risking you.”
“But what if—”
“No.”
I stared at him.
He had tears in his eyes.
“I would love another child,” he said. “You know I would. But Noah, Eli, and Mason need you alive more than either of us needs another baby.”
That ended the argument.
At least officially.
There was still a plastic container in the basement filled with newborn clothes.
Every spring, during cleaning, I would carry it toward the donation pile.
And every spring, Carter would say something like:
“We can deal with that later.”
Eventually I stopped trying.
I thought it was sentimentality.
I thought we were both holding on to an old version of our family.
I had no idea that one Tuesday afternoon, that box would matter again.
I arrived at St. Catherine’s twenty-three minutes after Carter called.
I remember the number because I checked the dashboard clock three times during the drive.
My imagination had become unbearable.
A niece I didn’t know about?
A coworker’s baby?
Some emergency involving a friend?
Then came the thought I hated myself for having.
Carter’s baby.
By the time I reached the maternity floor, I could barely feel my fingers.
I saw him before he saw me.
He was standing near a window at the end of the corridor.
His work shirt was wrinkled.
His jacket was hanging from one hand.
And his eyes were swollen.
Carter had cried when his grandfather passed.
He had cried when Noah was born.
Beyond that, I could count the number of times I’d seen him genuinely break down on one hand.
I walked toward him.
He looked up.
“Marissa.”
“Where is she?”
His face changed.
“You know about the baby?”
“You told me there was a baby.”
“No, I mean—”
I moved closer.
“Is she yours?”
For two seconds, he just stared at me.
Then he actually stepped backward.
“What?”
“Answer me.”
“No!”
People at the nurses’ station looked over.
Carter lowered his voice.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Then why are you here?”
He rubbed a hand over his face.
“There’s someone I never told you much about.”
That was not the sentence to use on a wife standing in a maternity ward.
I folded my arms.
“Fantastic start, Carter.”
“I know.”
“Who?”
He hesitated.
“Her name was Elise Warren.”
Was.
I noticed the tense.
“Who is Elise?”
“My girlfriend before I met you.”
I stared at him.
Carter had mentioned one serious relationship from his early twenties.
