It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate her mother or other women who were recognized at church with flowers and encouraging words from the pulpit. She wanted moms to be recognized and appreciated. But for her, the day was a reminder of what she wasn’t experiencing—what she’d lost and would never have. So on that Sunday in May she always stayed home from church and found something else to do, protecting her heart.

A proverb came to mind. “Each heart knows its own bitterness, and no one else can fully share its joy.” Only she knew the struggle she felt as she opened the invitation, printed in blue and pink. The shower was for Evelyn Miller, a good friend. She’d been there through the losses of Michael and John. Susan stared at the hand-drawn stork, and instead of crumpling the paper and throwing it away, instead of feeling the stabbing pain of all she’d lost, she smiled. She had prayed for the ability to rejoice with others at their good news, and this was the first time she’d felt like she might actually be able to attend such an event.

She took note of the list of requested items at the bottom of the page. There was also a phone number for the coordinator of the event so that more expensive gifts weren’t duplicated.

Jimmy was at the sink cleaning dishes when she put the mail on the desk in the kitchen. She walked down the hallway to the first door and when it swung open, she felt like she was looking at a gravestone to all her hopes and dreams. Her eyes settled on the white crib.

She walked into the room and closed her eyes, imagining the space filled with the voices of children. She ran her hands along the crib frame, feeling the smooth wood, admiring the craftsmanship. She touched a stuffed bear in the corner behind several pillows and imagined what it would have been like to see her son dragging the toy to the breakfast table, yawning and wiping sleep from his eyes.

As she left, she lingered at the door, looking at the unused rocking chair in the corner. Everything in the room was unused. Why was she holding on?

She closed the door and walked to the kitchen, grabbing her purse and shopping list.

Jimmy dried his hands on a dish towel and turned to her, a serious look on his face. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Susan innocently said, “What are you talking about?”

He swung the towel over his shoulder and turned dramatically, reaching for something behind the toaster. He pulled out an open box of Caramel deLites Girl Scout cookies and held them up as if they were evidence at a trial. “You promised to leave me half.”

“Did I . . . not?” she said, straight-faced, playing along with the accusation.