The first time Jack asked why I never had children,
we were sitting by the front window of a little coffee shop where the floorboards bowed slightly toward the door and every time someone came in, a brass bell interrupted every conversation.
It was late November.
The kind of afternoon when the sky can’t decide whether to snow or watch the birds begin their migration for warmer states.
I remember because my coat was still on and my tea had gone untouched,
steam lifting in thin pale ribbons between us,
curling past his hands.
His cup was black.
Mine was chipped cream,
a small crescent missing from the handle where someone before me had held on too tightly or not tightly enough.
Life is that way, isn’t it?
There is more than one way to break a thing.
Outside,
a young mother pushed a stroller past the glass,
one mitten in her teeth, one shoelace loose, her little boy turned backward so he could watch something he’d already passed on the pavement but wasn’t done admiring.
Probably a bug.
Little boys tend to linger over bugs.
Then Jack asked,
Why haven’t you had children?
Not suddenly.
Not heavily.
As though he were asking whether I preferred blue to red,
or hardcovers to paperbacks,
or why I always chose the corner seat facing the door.
I smiled first.
People do that when the body is buying time.
I wrapped both hands around the mug,
felt warmth press into the center of my palms,
and said what had become second nature by then—
The Lord just hasn’t given us children. We tried for a long time. It never happened.
Jack lowered his eyes for just a moment,
thumb brushing against the folded edge of his sleeve,
as though what I’d handed him required care.
Then he looked up and smiled through two pauses and a beat.
You would have made a wonderful mother.
And something in me, quiet for years, sat up.
Or maybe tripped?
A hinge.
A draft.
A room I thought I'd already closed.
After that,
life kept happening.
Conversations that began with nothing—
music,
students,
road construction,
the shape of clouds—
and before I understood how far we’d traveled,
the man who first asked why I’d never had children
was speaking as though he already knew what ours might look like.
Months later,
there were little white pills lined up beside my bathroom sink,
half a cracker,
a glass of water,
the morning moving slowly through the blinds.
And still—
Jack spoke of blue eyes.
A crooked smile.
Long fingers.
A laugh that would sound like mine.
And somewhere between longing and nausea from the pills meant to keep her away,
our daughter had a name.
Clara.
I said it once alone in my kitchen,
bare feet on tile,
the dishwasher humming,
afternoon light moving across the counter so slowly it looked like a memory.
