“Just some random tattoo?”
“Exactly.”
And I believed him.
For twenty years, I believed him.
I believed him through five failed fertility treatments.
Through endless appointments.
Blood tests.
Procedures.
Hormone injections.
Disappointment after disappointment.
Every month, we told ourselves that maybe the next attempt would be different.
Maybe this time.
Maybe the numbers would improve.
Maybe the treatment would work.
Maybe we’d finally become parents.
It never happened.
Eventually, after years of trying, Richard and I decided to adopt.
And then, somehow, our lives changed.
We brought home our daughter, Claire.
She was tiny.
Fragile.
Perfect.
The day we brought her home, we wrapped her in a cream-colored blanket that became one of the most treasured things we owned.
Richard cried when he held her.
I had never seen him cry like that before.
He pressed his face against her tiny head and whispered that he would protect her for the rest of his life.
