The day I found out the Clomid hadn’t worked for the third month in a row, she showed up with chicken soup.
“How did you know?” I asked, standing in the doorway in my sweatpants with my eyes swollen.
“Ben called me,” she said, stepping inside. “He said you might need some company.”
She heated the soup on my stove and made me sit at the kitchen table. She didn’t push me to talk. She just sat across from me while I ate, and every few minutes she’d reach over and squeeze my hand.“Some things are in God’s hands, sweetheart,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“No. I mean it.” She looked at me hard. “Whatever happens, none of this is because you did something wrong. Do you hear me?”
It was almost exactly what Ben had said. At the time, I thought it just meant they were a kind family. That they loved me.
