Page 118 of Even After This
“I want a thousand tomorrows with you,” I say, my voice wobbly. I can’t look at him.
In reverence, I run my fingers over the top of the small, fabric-covered accordion folder that’s lived in my purse for years. The pink floral pattern has long since faded, but not the pain represented inside.
My words get stuck in my throat, and it takes unbelievable fortitude to push them out. “But I don’t think I can give you the future you want. The one you deserve.”
His posture stiffens.
With shaking hands, I set down the blue Post-it note. After I release the black tie on the folder, I pull out two items. I turn them to face Harlan’s side of the counter.
“Clayton and Chloe.” His gravelly voice is gentle as his fingers graze the sides.
“I can’t have more babies, Harlan.” A tear falls to the marble as I place my hand over his. “I can’t give you children.”
He draws his eyes from the pictures to my face.
Our stares lock. I want to turn my head and cower at the strain, but I force myself to remain unmoved.
“Are you—” He shifts his weight. “Can we talk about what that means? I mean, are you okay? Are you sick? Or is this because—” He pauses. “I mean, I understand if you’re scared, Meredith.Anyone who’s been through what you’ve been through would be scared.”
His intense energy starts to unravel, and I wait to respond.
Pacing two steps away from me, he shakes his head, then turns and slices a hand through the air. “First. Are you physically okay?”
“I’m healthy, Harlan.” I offer him a watery smile.
“Good.” He releases a relieved breath and nods. “Good.”
I take a shaky inhale and whisper the next strike. “But my doctor advised me not to carry any more babies.”
His head snaps up, and a heart-wrenching understanding dawns on his face.
His pained expression is more than I can endure, and I shift my focus to the folder, praying I don’t have to deliver the final blow. I pick up the abandoned blue Post-it and fold it over, creasing the middle. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Harlan rub his hands over his reddened face.
In four strides, he rounds the island and locks me in a frantic embrace.
When I clutch his T-shirt, it’s more out of fear than comfort for him. “I’m sorry I can’t have children with you,” I whisper.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs into my hair. “We can adopt, Meredith. We’ll figure this out, and we’ll adopt.”
At his words, I become wooden.
Pulling back, he cups my face, his eyes filled with concern. “Meredith?”
I exhale and close my eyes. “It’s not as simple as my body not being able to carry a baby.”
He puts gentle pressure on his hold. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
When I comply, his beautiful, confused face comes into focus.
“Because of Clayton and Chloe?” He scans my features as if the answers can be found in my face.
I anchor a hand to the island. “Because of all of them.”
His body jerks back. “All of them? What does that mean, ‘all of them’?”
I turn to the marble, pick up the folder, and pull out the remaining photos. My hands tremble while I lay out each grainy, black-and-white picture one by one. Two rows of three. Each one is separate. A little bit different from the one next to it. Siblings.
Harlan braces a hand on the counter.
