After Robert passed, we never touched the account. It sat there, sacred and silent. I couldn’t bear to log in, couldn’t see the number that once symbolized a future now gone. It became something we didn’t mention—but we also couldn’t erase it.
Two years ago, we started trying again. I missed feeling like a mom. I thought maybe, just maybe, another child could bring back some light.
“You think it’s time?” I asked Martin one night, barely above a whisper.
“Only if you’re ready,” he said instantly.
I wasn’t. But I nodded anyway.
And that’s when the next kind of heartbreak began.
The emptiness got louder. Not just silence—absence that pressed in. Every negative test felt like the universe mocking our hope.
Each time, I’d drop the test into the trash with trembling fingers and crawl into bed. I’d face the wall and say nothing. Martin would just hold me, no words needed. Just presence.
Words weren’t necessary. The silence carried it all.
“Maybe we’re not meant to,” I whispered one night.
“Maybe… just not yet,” Martin said, kissing my shoulder.
The family knew. They saw us trying. They knew how much we were hurting.
And Amber?
She pretended to care. But her eyes always told the truth.
Martin’s sister treated grief like it was a show—something to analyze. She’d tilt her head just so, judging whether our pain was too much or too little.
She came often after Robert di:ed, but never to help. Never asked how we were. She just sat in our living room with too much perfume and judgment in her gaze, sipping tea and scanning the family photos like she expected us to forget who was missing.
So when we hosted Martin’s birthday last week—just close family—I should’ve known better than to relax.
“We’ll keep it simple,” I told Martin. “Dinner, cake. Nothing heavy.”
“If you’re sure,” he said, softly. “Then that’s perfect.”
We spent the morning cooking. The house filled with scents—lamb, sweet and sour pork, rosemary potatoes. Jay brought his signature lemon tart. Amber brought her superiority.
Her seventeen-year-old son, Steven, brought his phone and zero manners.
Robert always helped with the cake. He’d climb his little stool beside me, pressing candy decorations into frosting with sticky fingers, humming his school songs.
This year, I did it alone. Triple chocolate and raspberry. Their favorite.
I lit the candles. Jay dimmed the lights. The singing was gentle, like we were afraid joy might crack from the weight of remembering. I saw a flicker of happiness on Martin’s face.
