Because she came six years after his son, people asked if his daughter was a surprise. Yes, he said. Ten toes. Ten fingers. A surprise. They’d conceived their son in a Via Rail sleeper somewhere between Halifax and Montreal and his wife had worked a kitchen until 36 weeks. So, second time around, the miscarriage had come as a slap—perhaps it had been too soon, her body wasn’t ready. When it happened again, at thirteen weeks, the doctors reassured them. Proven fertility. The third was lost at five weeks, the pregnancy test still on the nightstand. They squeezed their son like a lifeline. And then, a girl, hearty enough to cross the amniotic threshold. Eric still thought of the three lost ones, imagined them growing at pace with their siblings. Was that them in the pond, playing house between the weeds?
(written by Claire Tacon, read by Chioke I'Anson)
Subscribe to us on iTunes or wherever else you get your audio fix.