It often sneaks up on you—those fleeting moments when a memory sends a shiver down your spine. Today, while driving my partner, Sarah, to work, I experienced one of those moments. As she scrolled through Facebook, a photo popped up of some old friends with their children. I found myself asking, “Didn’t they say they had four kids now?” They do.
And suddenly, it struck me. We could have had that too—or at least we might have. But it never happened.
Reflecting on our journey, I remember a night not too long after we were married. I received a call at work from Sarah. Something was wrong; I could hear the tremor in her voice. She was in tears, asking me to come and get her. I rushed to the university where she worked, only to find her in a bathroom stall, tears streaming down her face, her clothes stained with blood. We went to the doctor, and it was then that the weight of loss fell upon us. We had lost what would have been our first child. Thankfully, Sarah was physically okay, and we were reassured that we could try again when the time was right. But in those days that followed, we cocooned ourselves in takeout and movies, leaning heavily on self-pity. We confided in a few family members who knew about the pregnancy, but let’s be honest—there’s not much anyone can say to alleviate that kind of pain. All the goodwill in the world couldn’t replace the excitement we had already felt about baby names and nursery colors. It felt like we had to tuck that chapter away, like an old photograph in an album that we revisit only occasionally.
Time passed, and we welcomed a beautiful daughter named Mia into our lives. However, we faced another miscarriage. By that point, we considered ourselves seasoned veterans of this heartache. This time, it happened right during a routine pregnancy appointment. The doctor’s words were a cruel echo of our past loss, and though we went home and kept it mostly to ourselves, we poured our love into caring for Mia. Yet again, we compartmentalized that experience like an old photo tucked away on a shelf.
Eventually, joy returned when we welcomed our second daughter, Lily. After four pregnancies and two losses, we decided to stop trying for more children.
Some days, the thought of expanding our family creeps in—imagining the joy of a new baby and the excitement it could bring. But for us, that time has passed. I still find myself reflecting on what might have been, particularly at the oddest moments. Our family could have been larger, but it isn’t. I know we’re not alone in this. To all the couples out there who’ve traveled a similar path, I want to extend a quiet acknowledgment—we understand your journey.
This morning, after dropping Sarah off at work, I returned home to the delightful chaos of breakfast with the kids. Mia danced around with her panda stuffed animal while Lily showcased one of her imaginative drawings. They truly are extraordinary children. Yes, I still think about what could have been—sometimes at the most unexpected times—but I wouldn’t trade my current family for anything.
That chapter will always remain a page in the photo album of our lives. And while it holds its significance, I wouldn’t change a thing about my family as it is right now.
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