“Then why can’t I give you a baby?”
His arms got tighter. He pressed his face into my neck, and I felt something wet. He was crying. Ben almost never cried.
“Please don’t say that,” he said. His voice was thick. “Please don’t ever say that. This isn’t your fault, Claire. I swear to God, it isn’t your fault.”
I thought he was being sweet. I thought he was protecting me.
I turned around and held him, and I apologized. Can you believe that? I apologized to him.
“I’m sorry,” I said into his chest. “I’m so sorry, Ben. I know how much you want this.”
He didn’t say anything. He just held on.
Through all of it, there was Diane.
My own mother lived two hours away. She called every Sunday and asked, carefully, “Any news?” and I would say, “Not yet, Mom,” and she would change the subject to my dad’s tomatoes.
