“My darling girl,
“You once told me you were frightened you might never become a mother.”
“I did not know what to say because there are some pains you cannot fix by finding the correct sentence.”
“So I went home and did the only useful thing I could think of.”
“I started a dress.”
I stopped.
The garden blurred.
I remembered the conversation.
I had been 34.
Two years into trying.
We had just learned our first round of fertility treatment had failed.
I hadn’t told most people.
But I’d told Grandma.
We sat in her kitchen.
I said, “Maybe this just isn’t going to happen for me.”
Grandma had reached across the table and said, “Maybe. But today isn’t every day.”
That was all.
She hadn’t told me to relax.
Hadn’t said it would happen when I stopped trying.
Hadn’t promised me a miracle.
Just:
Today isn’t every day.
