“I understand, Doctor,” I would respond, biting back the irritation that bubbled up. “But I want this. I really want this.” The resolute determination to carry my baby surged through me like a second heart, pushing back against the doubters and fears that threatened to cloud my joy.
Each day bled into the next, the weight of my belly a constant reminder of the life pulsing within me. I filled journals with dreams and hopes for my baby, documenting every flutter and kick, each moment a treasure to be saved and shared. I dreamed vividly of nursery colors, baby clothes, and the soft sounds of coos and cries.
“Mom, don’t forget to take care of yourself too,” Michelle would remind me, her eyes searching my face for signs of fatigue.
I waved her off, dismissive of her worries. I was fine, I felt fine. The world around me felt alive and vibrant. And I, at sixty-five, was finally stepping into the role I had always yearned for.
