I asked if there was any version where it was safe.

She said no.

I asked again six months later.

Then again the following year, phrased differently, as though changing the question might somehow change my body.

The answer never did.

We wanted a daughter.

God, we wanted one.

I’d had the name picked out since I was nineteen.

Maya.

I used to imagine little dresses in our laundry between the boys’ muddy jeans.

I pictured a tiny girl sitting beside Marcus while he repaired something in the garage.

I imagined teaching her things my mother taught me.

For years, that imaginary daughter existed somewhere in my mind.

Then reality became stronger than wanting.