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.
