For seven years, I lived inside a quiet kind of hope that slowly turned into something heavier. It wasn’t just the waiting, or the appointments, or the way every month felt like a verdict handed down in silence. It was what that waiting did to us. Michael didn’t just want a child. He wanted a son. At first, I treated it like a phase, the kind of thing people say before life teaches them better. He would talk about baseball games, about “carrying the family name,” about a future that had already been decided in his mind. I would laugh...
Continues…