“No. This can’t be happening!”
My husband’s voice cut through the delivery room like broken glass.chfr
I had been holding our daughter for maybe three minutes. She was warm and slippery and perfect, and she was screaming her tiny lungs out. I was crying too. Six years. Six years of waiting, and she was finally here, on my chest, her little fist pressed against my collarbone.
Ben had been crying a second earlier. I had seen it. His eyes had been wet when the nurse said, “It’s a girl,” and he had laughed and kissed my forehead and said, “We did it, Claire. We actually did it.”
Then he leaned over to look at her face.
And everything changed.
His smile didn’t fade slowly. It dropped off his face all at once, like someone had pulled a plug. He went white. His hand, which had been resting on my shoulder, slid away.
