« You and me, buddy, » I muttered at it. « One of us is walking out of here warm. »
I was crouched on the utility room floor.
My husband, Michael, was in Denver, or Dallas, or one of those cities his job kept sending him to.
***
Fourteen years ago, we’d built that house ourselves, the two of us and a contractor. Three bedrooms because we were going to fill them with children.
We didn’t.
Years of appointments, procedures, and hormones I injected into my own stomach, only to face crushing disappointments. Then a doctor with kind eyes telling us to stop.
We’d built that house ourselves.
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