And every time I saw a pregnant woman resting her hand over her stomach, I felt a tiny ache I never knew how to explain.
Eventually, I stopped imagining myself as a mother at all.
By 29, I thought I had finally accepted the life doctors had told me I would have.
Then my phone rang.
It was a number I didn’t recognize.
I almost ignored it.
For some reason, I answered.
The woman on the other end introduced herself, mentioned my old medical records, and then said six words that made my entire body go still.
“There may be another possibility.”
I sat down immediately.
My heart began pounding.
For thirteen years, I had been told there was no possibility.
No chance.
No miracle waiting around the corner.
Yet only days later, I found myself sitting in a hospital room surrounded by specialists as they described a complicated medical option I had never imagined could apply to someone like me.
