All Your Perfects(68)

The first few times you were asked, you just smiled and said we just started trying.

But by the fifth or sixth time, your smile was becoming more forced. I started answering for you, but even then, I could see in your eyes that the questions were painful. I just wanted to get you out of there.

Tonight was the first time I could see your sadness. You’re always so hopeful and positive about it, even when you’re worried. But tonight you seemed like you were over it. Like maybe tonight is going to be the last event we’ll ever attend until we actually do have a baby in our arms.

But I get it. I’m tired of the questions, too. It’s breaking me seeing you so sad. I feel so . . . ineffectual. I hate it. I hate not being in control of this. I hate not being able to fix this for you.

But even though we’ve been trying for over a year, I have hope. It’ll happen someday. It’ll just have to happen a different way than we thought it would.

Hell, I don’t even know why I’m writing about this, because you’ll be a mother when you read this letter. Five times over, maybe.

I guess I’m just processing all of it. And we have so much to be grateful for. You love your job. I tolerate mine. After work we get to spend our evenings together. We make love all the time and we laugh a lot. Life is perfect, really. Of course there’s the one element of you getting pregnant that we hope makes life even better, but that will come with time. And honestly, the longer it takes, we might even appreciate it a little more. Gratitude is born in the struggle. And we have definitely struggled.

Our niece Adeline is beautiful and happy and she likes you way more than she likes me. Caroline agreed to let her sleep over last year and it hasn’t stopped. And you look so forward to when we get to keep her. I think it has made me fall a little more in love with you. I know how much it hurts that we haven’t had a baby of our own yet, but seeing how genuinely happy you are for my sister and her family reaffirms just how selfless you are. You don’t equate our struggles with their success and it makes me love that strength about you.

You’re still asleep on the couch, but you’re snoring now and I need to stop writing this letter so I can go find my phone and record it. You argue with me and tell me you don’t snore, so I’m about to get the proof.

I love you, Quinn. And even though the tone of this letter was kind of depressing, the strength of my love for you is at its greatest. This isn’t a Category 5 moment. Maybe more of a Category 2. But I promise you I am loving you harder this year than any year that came before it.

I love you.

So much.

Graham



* * *




Dear Quinn,

I would apologize for opening the box yet again, but I have a feeling it’s going to happen again. Sometimes you don’t want to talk about the things that make you sad, but I feel like someday you’ll want to know my thoughts. Especially this year. It’s been our toughest yet.

We’ve been married for more than five years now. I don’t want to dwell on it too much because I feel like it’s all our life has become, but in the last few years, nothing has been successful as far as our fertility issues are concerned. We went through three rounds of IVF before calling it quits. We would have gone a fourth round, despite the doctor advising against it, but we just couldn’t afford it.

There are a lot of things I want to document during this marriage, Quinn, but the devastation following each of those failed attempts is not one of them. I’m sure you remember how hard it was for both of us, so there’s no point in detailing it.

You know how I always ask you about your dreams? I think I’m going to stop doing that for a while.

Last Sunday when you woke up, I asked you what I missed while you were sleeping. You stared at me with this blank look in your eyes. You were silent for a little while and I thought you were trying to figure out how to relay your dream, but then your chin started to quiver. When you couldn’t stop it, you pressed your face into your pillow and you started to cry.

God, Quinn. I felt so guilty. I just put my arm around you and held you until you stopped crying. I didn’t push you to talk about what your dream was because I didn’t want you to have to think about it again. I don’t know if you dreamt that you were pregnant or that we had a baby but whatever it was, it was something that devastated you when you woke up and realized it was merely a dream.

It’s been six days since that happened, and I haven’t asked you about your dreams since that morning. I just don’t want to put you through that again. Hopefully one day we’ll get back to that, but I promise I won’t ask you again until you finally are a mother.

It’s tough. I know when we got married we didn’t expect to face these kinds of hurdles together. And honestly, Quinn, I try to carry you over them but you’re so damn independent. You try not to cry in front of me. You force your smiles and your laughter and you pretend to still be hopeful, but it’s changing you. It’s making you sad and filling you with guilt.

I know you sometimes feel bad because you think you’re taking away my opportunity to be a father. But I don’t care about that. If you tell me today that you want to stop trying for a baby, I’ll be relieved, because that would mean you might stop being sad. I’m only going through this fertility process with you because I know you want to be a mother more than anything. I would walk through fire to see you happy. I’d give up everything I have to see a genuine smile on your face. If we had to forego sex forever, I would. Hell, I’d even give up cheese to see you finally get your dream of becoming a mother. And you know how much I love cheese.