She turned to me at dinner, her eyes locked on mine.
Can I tell you something, Mommy?
Her face, so vulnerable, so engaged.
Every night, after you and Daddy tuck me in, I sit up in bed, I fold my hands and I pray.
It’s funny how you think you know everything there is to know about your child, until you don’t.
What do you pray for, Katie? I asked.
I thank God for the love in my heart and the sunshine.
I thank him for you and for Daddy.
And for Matthew.
And I tell him that if he gives our family a baby to love, my heart will be so, so full.
Her words, her innocence and her belief that the right combination of words to the right person would somehow bring what she so hopes for, leveled me.
In that moment, I couldn’t tell her that her daddy and I tried praying.
We tried science.
We tried hoping.
And still, we failed.
How will I ever convey to her just how much we wanted… still want… the very thing that she prays for each night?
How will I tell her that we eventually stopped hoping?
How can I tell her that when, after all this time, I can barely admit it to myself?