Page 18 of Every Chance After

“Right, of course… chocolate chip cake on her birthday.”

His lips upturn in a distinct smile. “You remember?”

“How could I forget something so sweet?” I gush weakly.

Slight blushing appears just below the dark rims of his reading glasses. “You’re kind, Marnie. To remember.”

“I love my job.” I pull the blankets over my hospital gown. “That makes it easy to remember things like that.”

“Kind to ask about Grady, too.”

“Tell him I’m okay.Truly.”

“Will do. You’re tired. I’ll let you get some rest. If there’s anything else…”

“You know where to find me,” I smile.

“Feel better, Miss Strange.”

He exits the room, closing the door gently behind him. I curl my body, the best I can, toward the window, locking eyes with headlights passing on the busy street across the parking lot. The sun has set, leaving orange and gold bands across the darkening blue sky.

We’d be married by now and feasting on filet mignon at the reception. I try envisioning our first dance, the champagne toasts, pressing cake into his lips, tossing the bouquet, but what was so delightfully imminent yesterday, even a few hours ago, feels weirdly impossible now.

I’ve missed my chance.

My no-tears rule takes a needed reprieve as they slip, sliding over my nose and dampening the pillow.

Mom’s voice echoes,“Don’t cry, Marnie. It doesn’t do you or anyone else any good. No one likes a crybaby.”

Still, I let them come, bargaining that I won’t allow them again, no matter what happens. But for now, they’re a must-do before getting onto the next steps of my recovery.

Only there is no recovery. Not really.

Mom sweeps into my thoughts again.“Life isn’t fair, sweetie, and it ain’t changing the rules for you.”

Until Ashe, I rarely thought about kids. Why should I? I’m twenty-five, a career woman, and happy to bypass family talk until later.Muchlater. Or never.

Besides, love and necessity have kept me career-focused. The only family I’ve known for the last ten years has been through work. And though Ashe and Cora talk about us having kids often, I thought it was just something people say. Something for later. Great, if it happens. No big deal, if not.

Yet.

Lying there, it hits me. The sore ache around my midsection travels upward, permeating my heart and head with a gnawing hollowness. Whether I want them or not, I can’t.

I can’t.

I’ll never know the feeling of life growing inside me. Never feel a baby’s tiny kicks and punches wriggling in my belly. Never say,“Ashe, put your hand here. The baby’s kicking,”like I’ve seen moms-to-be do with their spouses. Never have pickle and ice cream cravings, like Cora had with Ashe. Never carry that glorious basketball paunch that tells the world something beautiful and adorable is arriving soon. Never know the beauty of loving someone made from me. Would she have had my red hair? My freckles? Would he have had my eyes or my crooked smile? Would they have had the same raspberry birthmark at the base of their neck, as I do?

Now, I’m sobbing—something I haven’t done in over a decade. Sobbing for a dream that I never had the chance to grasp and hold on to and watch grow as Ashe and I framed our lives around it. Sobbing for children I can’t fully see, that I’ll never meet, who don’t exist.

My heart breaks in grief for their eyes that’ll never open, the words they’ll never say, their little fingers never gripping mine, and for the people they’ll never be. I cry over ghosts. Not even ghosts, but hints of souls in my imagination.

How can I hurt so much over what never was?

A gentle voice whispers, “I’m sorry, Marina,” behind me. I don’t turn around to see the man shadowing my bed—I know who it is. I’m crying like I’ve never cried before; I can’t face him. No one has ever seen me like this.

Broken.

Vulnerable.

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