I had just given my husband the son he’d wanted for eight years when he noticed something on our newborn. His smile disappeared—and within seconds, he accused me of cheating.
The ceiling tiles above my hospital bed blurred as I tried to steady my breathing, my body drained after twelve hours of labor. Somewhere down the hallway, another baby cried, and my arms already hurt with the need to hold mine.
Five pregnancies in eight years had made me very familiar with that emptiness.
My husband, Aaron, paced beside the window with his phone in one hand, smiling like a kid on Christmas morning.
At home, our four daughters—Lily, Grace, Chloe, and little Ava—were waiting excitedly to meet their new brother.
“Your sister Diana just texted,” he said. “The girls made a banner. Even Ava tried to help — apparently she mostly ate the crayons.”
I laughed, even though it hurt.
“Lily promised Grace she’d let her hold him first,” he added. “Chloe wants to know if he’s coming home tonight.”
“Not tonight, sweetheart.”
Aaron moved beside the bed and squeezed my hand so tightly my knuckles pressed together. He looked almost unable to contain himself.
“Next time.”
“I told you, Elena. I told you this one was mine.”
“He’s ours, Aaron.”
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
Four daughters had been enough for me long before this pregnancy, but I stopped saying so once I understood how badly Aaron wanted a son.
It had become easier to smile when he talked about trying again than to watch disappointment cross his face.
After Ava was born—our fourth daughter, pink-faced and crying in my arms—I remembered Aaron kissing her forehead and whispering, not cruelly, “Next time.”
I remembered the small bedroom at the end of our hallway that he had painted slate blue three years earlier.
A wooden train set already sat on the shelf.
“Michael dropped off dinner at the house last night,” Aaron said. “Lasagna. Said to tell you congratulations in advance.”
“He’s been a lifesaver these last few months.”
“He really has.”
Michael had handled school pickups when my back became unbearable during the third trimester.
He drove Chloe to ballet, sat with Ava at the pediatrician while I was on bed rest, and delivered groceries on Sundays.
He had been Aaron’s best friend since they were fourteen—tall, relaxed, and so familiar he felt like part of our household.
Once, Aaron came home early and found Michael and me laughing over coffee at the kitchen table.
“You two look comfortable,” he’d said.
He smiled when he said it, and I rolled my eyes.
But later that night, he asked how often Michael came over when he wasn’t home.
I laughed then too.
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