PART 1

The night my world divided in half began with a locked bathroom door, trembling fingers, and two pink lines appearing before I was prepared to trust in miracles.

For three years, Caleb and I had lived around the hollow place where a child should have been. Calendars were taped inside our kitchen cabinets, vitamins stood in rows beside the coffee maker like disciplined soldiers, and folders from fertility clinics filled a drawer I avoided opening. Every month started with hope and ended with me sitting on freezing tile, trying not to sob loudly enough for him to hear.

But that night, inside the guest bathroom of our glass-and-stone home overlooking Lake Washington, the test did not hesitate. It did not soften the truth. It simply revealed it.