![]() ![]() ![]() I had peed on enough pregnancy tests to know magical thinking wouldn’t work, so we eventually booked an appointment with a fertility specialist. Friends were making plans and building their futures, and I wanted to plan ours too. Motherhood was still a distant idea, and the realization that he was almost lost to me before we ever met was unbearable. Within weeks, we were engaged.īy the time I turned 25, motherhood had become a matter of how and when. “It doesn’t matter,” I shrugged, laying my head on his chest. I held my breath while he described the radiation, chemotherapy, and stem cell transplant. Six years earlier, he’d been diagnosed with a cancer that nearly killed him. ![]() “I probably can’t have kids,” he said suddenly. Three days later, we laid on a deserted beach in the September sun. I was 21 he was 25 and dreaming about his future again. He and I first met in a grimy college bar. I used to say we willed her into existence. My husband and I weren’t in the room when our daughter was born. ![]()
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