I miss us.
I miss the way you used to reach for me in your sleep. I miss laughing over stupid things. I miss believing that sadness was something we would survive together.
I know you are hurting too. I know you lost them too. I need you to know I never blamed you for grieving differently. I only blamed the silence.
There’s something else.
When the doctor called with the first test results, he said some hormone levels were unusual. He said it may be related to the tumor or the miscarriage, and he needs to run more tests. I don’t understand all of it yet. Part of me is afraid to hope for anything. Part of me is afraid not to.
If this is bad, I don’t want you to stay because you feel trapped. But I also don’t want to disappear from your life because we were both too wounded to speak.
So I’m asking one thing.
Come with me to the appointment next Thursday.
Not as a perfect husband.
Not as someone who knows what to say.
Just as you.
Please.
Sophie
By the time I finished reading, I was crying so hard I could barely see the page.
Next Thursday.
I remembered that Thursday.
I had been in a conference room discussing quarterly projections while Sophie went to the hospital alone.
And that night, I came home irritated because traffic had been bad.
The memory made me feel sick.
I folded the letter carefully and sat there for a long time.
Then something about the third page pulled at me.
I opened it again.
There’s something else.
When the doctor called with the first test results, he said some hormone levels were unusual.
Unusual hormone levels.
Related to the tumor or the miscarriage.
Afraid to hope.
Afraid not to.
A strange feeling moved through me.
Not understanding.
Not yet.
But unease.
I searched the drawer again, not to pry, but because Sophie had told me to read the letter. Beside the charger was a small appointment card from St. Vincent Medical Center, tucked beneath a packet of discharge instructions.
On the back, in Sophie’s handwriting, were three words.
Ask about embryo.
I stared at them.
Embryo?
My pulse began to pound.
I checked the date on the card.
It was from the same week as the letter.
I didn’t know what it meant. Maybe it was connected to fertility preservation. Maybe it was some medical term I didn’t understand. Maybe Sophie had written it during a conversation with a specialist and forgotten.
