« Next time. »
« I told you, Elena. I told you this one was mine. »
« He’s ours, Aaron. »
« 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.
« He’s been a lifesaver. »
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.
« Michael dropped off dinner at the house last night, » Aaron said. « Lasagna. Said to tell you congratulations in advance. »
« He’s been a lifesaver these last few months. »
« He really has. »
