Chapter 8 - I Thought I Had Lost My Chance to Carry a Child
I was forty-one when I met Nathan Brooks.
Three years after Ethan entered my life.
He was a pediatric anesthesiologist.
Which meant our first conversation was an argument.
“You cardiologists always think your cases are the only emergencies in the building.”
“They usually are.”
“That attitude is why nobody likes cardiologists.”
“Anesthesiologists are just jealous because patients remember meeting us.”
He stared.
Then laughed.
That was it.
No lightning.
No instant romance.
Just two exhausted doctors drinking terrible coffee at 2:00 a.m.
Nathan knew my history.
Not because I told him immediately.
Because the Hartwell scandal had been national news.
The first time he mentioned it, he said:
“I know enough not to ask until you want to talk.”
That got my attention.
Our first date was four months later.
Ethan was six.
He interrogated Nathan.
“What do you do?”
“I'm a doctor.”
“Mommy Kiki is doctor.”
“I know.”
“She fixes hearts.”
“I help people sleep.”
Ethan looked suspicious.
“That's not doctor.”
Nathan accepted the criticism.
He won Ethan over six months later with a model airplane.
Melinda met Nathan before things became serious.
That was weird.
There is no guidebook for introducing your former best friend who stole your embryo and is now your co-parent to your boyfriend.
Nathan handled it.
“Nice to meet you.”
Melinda said:
“You know everything?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“I assume there are details I'd prefer not to know.”
I laughed.
So did Melinda.
Progress is strange.
Nathan and I married when I was forty-three.
Small wedding.
Ethan carried the rings.
He dropped one.
Then announced:
“FOUND IT!”
during the ceremony.
Perfect.
A year later, I sat in my gynecologist's office for a routine appointment.
She reviewed my history.
Then said:
“Have you ever considered pregnancy?”
I laughed.
“That's complicated.”
“I know.”
“I'm forty-four.”
“I also know.”
“I have endometriosis.”
“Mild.”
“Low ovarian reserve.”
“At thirty-five.”
I stared.
She continued.
“I'm not saying spontaneous conception is likely.”
“Good.”
“But if you wanted to explore options, we can.”
I went home.
Told Nathan.
He didn't say:
Let's have a baby.
He asked:
“Do you want to?”
I cried.
Because nobody had asked me that in years.
Connor wanted a child because fatherhood validated him.
Melinda wanted a child to keep Connor.
Haskins treated embryos like negotiable material.
Now Nathan simply asked:
Do you want to?
“I don't know.”
“Okay.”
“What do you want?”
“A life with you.”
“That is annoyingly healthy.”
“Therapy.”
I laughed.
We eventually decided to try one IVF cycle.
My eggs were unlikely to produce a viable embryo at forty-four.
We knew.
No fantasy.
No promises.
The cycle failed.
I cried.
Nathan held me.
Then asked:
“Again?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
No disappointment.
No pressure.
No implication that I had failed him.
Just okay.
Then our reproductive endocrinologist mentioned donor eggs.
I laughed at the cosmic absurdity.
“My life really refuses to make reproduction simple.”
Nathan squeezed my hand.
We discussed it for months.
Then chose a donor.
Every consent form was reviewed.
Twice.
I insisted.
Nathan joked:
“Do you want Rebecca to notarize breakfast too?”
“Yes.”
We transferred one embryo.
Two weeks later, I stared at a positive pregnancy test.
I didn't believe it.
Blood test.
Positive.
Second blood test.
Rising appropriately.
At six weeks, ultrasound.
Heartbeat.
I cried so hard the technician stopped talking.
Nathan cried too.
At twelve weeks, I told Ethan.
He was nine.
“You're going to be a big brother.”
He stared.
“To whose baby?”
I laughed.
“Mine.”
His eyes widened.
“You have baby INSIDE?”
“Yes.”
He looked horrified.
“How?”
“Ask me when you're thirty.”
He accepted that.
Then:
“Does Mama know?”
Melinda.
“Yes.”
“What she say?”
“Congratulations.”
He smiled.
“Can baby come to my room?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Pregnancy at forty-five was not magical.
I had nausea.
Back pain.
Gestational hypertension.
My ankles became philosophical concepts.
Nathan was unbearable.
“Blood pressure.”
“I took it.”
“When?”
“An hour ago.”
“Again.”
“You are not my doctor.”
“I know. Your doctor is less attentive.”
I loved him.
At thirty-seven weeks, our daughter was born.
Lucy.
Healthy.
Six pounds, eleven ounces.
When the nurse placed her on my chest, I couldn't speak.
I had spent years believing pregnancy was the definition of motherhood.
Then Ethan taught me it wasn't.
Now Lucy taught me carrying a child was still something I had been allowed to want.
Both truths could coexist.
Ethan met her that afternoon.
He stared.
“She looks weird.”
“Thank you.”
“Why is her head like that?”
“Birth.”
“Gross.”
Then Lucy wrapped her fingers around his.
Ethan froze.
“Oh.”
That was the moment.
He fell in love.
“Can I keep her?”
Nathan laughed.
“She lives here.”
“Good.”
I looked at my son.
Then my daughter.
Two children.
One born from my genetics but another woman's body.
One born from another woman's genetics but my body.
May you like
If anyone needed proof that motherhood was bigger than DNA, there it was.
Love had made a family out of biology's strangest possible arrangement.
