And then, finally, when John had stopped asking if I was late, when I was speaking to adoption agencies in nine states and three countries, it happened. John and I had gone through the motions the night before, and when I woke up in the morning, I knew. I just knew.

Those first three months, I was so careful, holding myself together with all I had. I told God I was grateful and waited, waited for every day to pass, to bring me closer to my child. When I went to the doctor at fifteen weeks and she pronounced everything normal and healthy, I burst into tears. Only when I started to show did I confirm that yes, I was pregnant.

That beautiful, rich, sacred word. Pregnant. I called my family, and they answered in typical Minnesotan fashion. “Oh, that’s nice, Barbara. Didja hear Tina’s pregnant again, too?” I hadn’t shared my difficulties with them, but their nonchalance infuriated me.

Caro was wonderful. She threw her arms around me and cried with happiness. Took me shopping for maternity clothes and understood that I was too superstitious to want a baby shower.

What a completely terrifying time those nine months were! “Enjoy,” people would say, and I’d look at them like they were crazy. Enjoy? When I could hold my baby, I would enjoy. For now, I was wrapped in fear, walking a razor’s edge, taking such good care of myself and yet held hostage every minute.

John figured we were “out of the woods” once I hit the fourth month, unaware that I prayed ferociously and almost constantly, begging and bribing and cajoling and threatening God to give me a healthy child, to spare me another miscarriage. I would be the best mother. I would love my baby so much. I already did. I would make God so proud of me. Please. Please. Please. With every roll and push of the baby, I was struck by wonder . . . and fear. Oh, I loved this baby so much. So much.

When I went into labor, I was the most ready person in the world. None of this “please, it hurts too much, I can’t do it,” not for me. Gosh no. And it didn’t hurt—well, of course it did, but not nearly as much as they tell you it will.

I was ready, and my baby was ready, too—two hours after John and I got to the hospital, she was here.

A daughter. Oh, the joy that filled my heart when they told me! I’m sure I would’ve felt the same way if it had been a boy, but upon hearing, “It’s a girl, Mrs. Frost!” my heart overflowed with gratitude and joy and sheer, utter bliss.

Juliet Elizabeth Frost. My precious, wonderful miracle. I knew, in that moment, I would never love anyone as much.