PART 1 — THE BOX ABOVE HIS TOOLS

For four years, my husband wouldn’t let me give away a box in our garage.

Newborn things.

Swaddles.

Two sleepers.

A hat the size of an orange.

It sat on the shelf above his tools, and every few months I’d say we should finally pass it on to somebody who needed it.

Marcus always gave me the same answer.

“Next month.”

We have three boys.

Nine, seven, and four.

Loud, filthy, wonderful.

After the third one, my doctor sat us both down.

She asked Marcus to come into the room and hear it from her instead of from me.

She used the word probably.

Not “there’s a risk.”

Not “it could be difficult.”

She said a fourth pregnancy would probably kill me.

And that if it didn’t, I’d likely spend most of it in a hospital bed, away from the three children I already had.