I longed to be a mother more than anything else. It wasn’t a quiet wish or a passing dream—it was a hollow ache that followed me everywhere.
My husband and I tried for years. We planned our lives around ovulation calendars, doctor appointments, and whispered hope. We sat in sterile rooms under fluorescent lights while strangers spoke in careful voices about hormones, odds, and next steps.
We lost five babies.
Each mis.carriage felt like a small funeral no one else could see. I learned how to smile through baby showers, how to congratulate friends while my chest burned, how to pack away tiny onesies I had bought too early.
My husband never blamed me. He held my hand through every loss. But I saw it—the flicker of fear in his eyes when I said, “Maybe next time.” As if he was afraid to hope anymore.
After the fifth loss, I broke.
I sat on the cold bathroom floor, my back against the tub, my body empty again. And for the first time in my life, I prayed out loud.
“Dear God,” I whispered, my voice shaking, “if You give me a child… I promise I’ll save one too. If I become a mom, I will give a home to a child who has none.”
I didn’t know if anyone was listening. But the words felt carved into my bones.
