Chapter 13
I became pregnant at thirty-four.
The test sat on the bathroom counter like a tiny explosion.
Marcus found me staring at it.
“Claire?”
I pointed.
He looked.
Then looked again.
Then sat down on the edge of the tub.
“Oh.”
I laughed.
Then cried.
Then laughed again.
Pregnancy after brain trauma came with extra appointments.
Extra fear.
Extra doctors saying “monitor closely.”
I hated those words.
But the baby grew.
So did hope.
At twenty weeks, we learned it was a girl.
Marcus cried so hard the ultrasound tech handed him tissues.
I whispered, “Margaret.”
He looked at me.
“For Mom?”
“For Mom.”
Our daughter was born on a bright morning with a full head of dark hair and an angry little cry.
I held her and felt something in me settle.
Not heal completely.
Settle.
Like a house finally accepting its foundation.
Maya became Aunt Maya before anyone voted.
Thomas became Grandpa Tom and pretended not to melt every time Maggie grabbed his finger.
Elaine sent a tiny blazer.
Ridiculous.
Perfect.
Dad sent a letter.
I did not read it for two weeks.
When I did, it said only:
She is beautiful. You owe me nothing. I am glad you lived to become this happy.
I sat with that sentence a long time.
Then I placed it in a drawer.
Not framed.
May you like
Not destroyed.
A drawer felt right.
