I had walked into the appointment afraid that my one chance at motherhood might slip away.

I walked out carrying images of three beginnings, no larger than seeds.

Eva sat beside me in the parking lot while I cried.

I cried because I was happy, because I was frightened, because I had nowhere of my own to put three cribs, and because the man who had spent eleven years talking about heirs wasn’t there to hear the news.

The medical team later clarified that the treatment had addressed a uterine problem interfering with implantation and that no responsible doctor could guarantee an uncomplicated pregnancy.