I asked to see them, and he was like, “See what?”

My babies, obviously.

How was it that only a few short months ago making these embryos felt hopeful? It felt easy, like cancer would be a blip on my radar and, in no time, I would be back in action.

Dr. Wright didn’t argue with me. And, in retrospect, I’m sure that walking me into his lab must have wrecked his schedule, that the rest of the day was filled with angry women. I wondered briefly what Parker would have thought of this, of me there, standing over a microscope, my tears blurring the eyepiece as I asked Dr. Wright to switch the slides. They were just a few cells, my babies. But each one already looked different. One was a ladybug with its wings out. Another a beautiful flower about to bloom. A four-leaf clover. A teddy bear. They were actual, real-life embryos, a part of Parker and a part of me. One would have grown up to like her hair in braided pigtails, the other in sparkly clips. One would have wanted a basketball party when he turned five, another a firefighter party. One would hate peas, one would love carrots, one would be a gifted pianist, another not able to carry a tune. They were unique and they were special and they were beautiful. They were gifts. But they would never be.

I knew I was dying. I had made peace with that. But what I couldn’t reconcile is that they would die with me. I could imagine rocking them to sleep as babies, holding their chubby hands as they stepped into the ocean for the first time as toddlers, fighting over math homework and curfews, Parker teaching them to drive, even sitting in the front pew at their weddings. I wouldn’t get to do any of that, but what was so much worse, neither would they.

Pain and sadness drenched every part of me, making it difficult to breathe. I wouldn’t make a scene; I’d never do something like that. But this ache was so raw and so pure that I felt like I couldn’t move. I couldn’t walk away from them. When I did, my brief and painful attempt at motherhood, the one maternal thing I would ever do in my life, would be gone.

Dr. Wright put his hand on my shoulder and asked if I wanted him to call Parker. I sniffed and shook my head. I didn’t want Parker to know about this. He shouldn’t. He couldn’t. He was going to have so much to deal with. I couldn’t ask him to share this pain and this loss, too. I hoped that he would never think about it again, although it hurt something deep and low and dark in my heart to think of my babies here in this freezer. My ladybug, flower, four-leaf clover, and teddy bear. My legacy. My family. All the life that nearly was.

It seems crazy now, but I almost took them with me. I almost put my babies in my pocket and carried them out of there. What did it matter? They were just going back into some cold, anonymous freezer. They would never know the warmth of my body. They would never grow inside of me, come out of me, be held in my arms. They would never know the two parents who loved them more than life. They would be yet another decision that poor Parker had to make once I was gone. What to do with the embryos. I had put a lot of clauses in my will to make things easier for him, but that was one I had left alone. A mother shouldn’t have to make such decisions.