I never found the courage to try having another child.
The possibility of experiencing the same loss again frightened me too much.
Through those difficult years, my younger sister, Nora, stayed close.
She knew how deeply I missed Lucy.
And I knew she was carrying her own heartbreak.
For eight years, Nora and her husband, Tom, had been trying to have a baby.
They attended medical appointments.
Endured disappointing results.
Watched friends become parents.
And returned home to a house that always seemed painfully quiet.
Sometimes Nora called me after another unsuccessful treatment.
“I don’t understand why this keeps happening,” she’d whisper.
I listened because there wasn’t anything I could say to make it fair.
Eventually, I suggested adoption.
At first, she hesitated.
“What if I can’t love a child who isn’t biologically mine?”
I took her hand.
“Nora, you’ve wanted to be a mother for years. Love isn’t something a blood test can measure.”