They don’t talk to you, they just talk to each other. And you just lie there, still connected to the new person but also apart, helpless in this sacred moment, peeking around the equipment to catch a glimpse of your newborn darling, needing it near you.

For the rest of your life.

My baby was born on September 13, 2003. I’d had a high-risk pregnancy, but I hadn’t been worried. I felt this was meant to be. And I’d been having dreams where the baby would tell me to be confident, because the baby was strong and would come out fully gestated and ready to breathe. So the baby and I had made a pact, and we had made it happen.

Meanwhile, Hal and I made our own pact. When I told Hal I wanted to withdraw our lawsuit for custody and settle with Cally, including settling her medical claims against us, he said he was relieved. Letting go of this fight allowed him to devote himself entirely to his boys. He lightened in a way I hadn’t seen since before Elizabeth was born. Our settlement allowed Cally to go back to school and raise her daughter with modest support payments from Hal and friendly informal visitation for us.

Jake had been getting used to his wheelchair, and the doctors were always on to a new study, a new hope for regeneration and animation of his legs. He was looking for a college with a para sports program and eventually planned to compete in para snowboarding. When all was said and done, Hal was simply grateful that Jake was alive. The accident had thrust us all into a slow-motion shock, a gradual acceptance, and also a new clarity. We felt the need to cling to every bit of life and connection we had. We felt the need to appreciate our bodies.

And then I discovered I was four months pregnant. I’d noticed the symptoms but thought it was perimenopause or hyper-stress or both. Hal was thrilled. It was as if this was what he’d wanted all along but hadn’t known it. Or hadn’t felt able to say so. The idea of making a baby together, in my own womb, with my old egg, was a new—and unexpected—joy for us both.