My name is Margaret. I am seventy-five years old, and I have been married to my husband, Thomas, for more than five decades. For most of our marriage, it was just the two of us, building a life that looked complete from the outside but carried a quiet ache within it.
We wanted children. Not casually or briefly, but deeply and persistently. We pursued every option offered to us at the time. There were medical appointments that blurred together, invasive tests, hormone treatments, calendars marked carefully with hope and later crossed through with resignation. Each month ended the same way. Eventually, a doctor sat across from us, folded his hands, and spoke gently but firmly. Our chances, he said, were extremely low.
There were no follow-up plans, no alternative paths presented. That conversation marked the end of a chapter we had not been ready to close. We grieved privately, learning how to carry disappointment without letting it consume us. Over time, we adjusted. By the time I turned fifty, we told ourselves that we had accepted the life we were living.
Then, one ordinary afternoon, a neighbor mentioned a child.
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