My Son Called at Midnight About the Blanket His Wife Threw Away

I used to tell him.

He’d grin and say, “Good. Means I’m still alive.”

Robert and I lost our first baby at eleven weeks.

Then another.

Then there was Ethan, all seven pounds of him, red-faced and furious at the world in June of 1989 while the hospital air conditioner rattled and nurses argued in the hall about the Bulls game.

We didn’t get another child continue reading …