She’d been so hopeful.
Keeping her appointments. Taking the hormones and ‘magic’ Chinese herbs. Eating a shitload of superfoods, including dinosaur kale from her backyard. Forty-one, solo, giving artificial insemination a go.
No sleep tonight, though. Not after this last shift.
Before guiding the couple into the room where their young son was bleeding out from multiple stab wounds and nothing would save him, she cleaned the floor—a fucking war zone—and found a fresh bedsheet for the boy. Then the mother crumpling to her knees. The father statue-stiff.
Wide awake, she lays a hand on her belly. And prays.