After a long day, I pulled into the driveway and froze. Sitting on the lawn was a stroller, adorned with a satin bow and filled
with yellow lilies—my favorite flower. My heart sank. Arthur had always said, “I want to travel, Vic. Kids don’t fit in that picture.”
So I buried my dreams of motherhood quietly, especially after learning I couldn’t have children. He never knew. No one did.
I convinced myself I was at peace. But grief doesn’t disappear—it waits. And now, staring at that stroller, it returned
like a wave. Inside, tucked under a cream blanket, was a note in Arthur’s handwriting: “I’m ready, Vic. Let’s try for a baby. I love you.”
It was everything I had once longed to hear. But instead of joy, I felt panic. His gift was full of hope,
but I carried a truth that could crush it. I’d have to tell him: no matter how ready we are now, some dreams can’t come true.
And yet, maybe this isn’t the end. Maybe love doesn’t only grow in the ways we plan. Maybe we find new dreams—together.
