Valerie watched her friends have babies with a mix of joy and jealousy. Baby showers were torture.
She saw Oliver watching fathers play catch with their sons at the park, and it broke her heart. She felt broken.
Finally, she accepted it. She wasn’t meant to be a mother. She threw herself into her work.
Then, seven years ago, in early February, she started feeling off. Tired. Nauseous.
She bought a pregnancy test, feeling foolish. She was 35. It wasn’t supposed to happen.
On Valentine’s Day morning, after Oliver left for work, she took the test. Two pink lines.
She was pregnant. It was a miracle.
That was the news she was going to tell him at dinner. The dinner he never showed up for.
After the divorce and the move, Valerie gave birth to a healthy baby girl named Polly. She was born on a rainy April morning, screaming her lungs out.
Polly was an easy baby. She slept through the night early and rarely fussed. She was Valerie’s salvation.
She looked exactly like Oliver. It was bittersweet, seeing his eyes looking back at her every day.
But she had Valerie’s hair—thick, golden waves.
