“It’s not the end of the world, Jenna. We can keep trying.”
“We shouldn’t have come.”
Patagonia was supposed to be our last adventure before becoming parents. Instead, it had been a crushing end to a cherished expectation.
“It’ll be okay.” I reached for her hand. There was no point in reminding her what the doctor in Santiago had said—that it happened in one in four pregnancies. That we were young. That we could try again. No—it wasn’t the end of the world, but we could see it from here. She knew what the doctor in Santiago hadn’t: that it ran in the family.
On the horizon, the ghosts of islands slumbered in the fog. It wasn’t ours to know the shape of our future. But just as I knew the color of her eyes and the shape of her hips, I knew somewhere in our future, a child waited.