For eleven years, my husband Daniel and I tried to become parents. We went through treatments, procedures, months of hope and just as many months of disappointment, until eventually I stopped opening the small yellow room at the end of our hallway that we had once planned to turn into a nursery.
By the time I was thirty-seven, I had almost accepted that motherhood might never happen for me.
Then one ordinary morning, I took another pregnancy test and saw two pink lines.
I sat on the bathroom floor crying because I had spent so many years preparing myself for disappointment that I no longer knew how to react to good news.
When Daniel came home, I placed the test inside a small box and handed it to him. He opened it, stared at it for several seconds, and then looked at me with tears already filling his eyes.
“Are you really pregnant?”
I nodded.
He wrapped his arms around me, then knelt in front of me and pressed his face against my stomach as though our baby could already hear him.
