I lay in my hospital bed pretending the morphine had knocked me out, when my husband leaned close and whispered, “When she’s gone, everything is OURS.”
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Three months after giving birth, my body still didn’t feel like my own—bleeding, trembling, surviving on fitful sleep and cold coffee. That afternoon, I stood in the kitchen of the house I helped buy, rocking my son, Noah, with one arm and folding tiny onesies with the other. The dryer thumped like a heartbeat. I kept telling myself I could do this. I had to.
