Chapter 24
Megan - Five Months Later
I lean against the bathroom counter, the negative test still in my hand. Nine months.
Nine months now of watching that little screen show nothing but one line.
I can hear the sounds of Mason getting ready for church coming from the bedroom. His boots scuffing against the floor, the rattle of his belt.
It’s Easter Sunday, which means church first and then a big lunch at his parents’. Lots of food, an Easter egg hunt for the kids.
It was fun last year, but this year I don’t want to go to anything.
Because I can already picture it: Karissa cutting up Gage’s food, Ella doing Hallie’s.
Emma and Cora sitting side by side like two tiny best friends, giggling.
Addison in the middle of it all, her round belly pressed against the table, glowing like she was born to be a mom, because she was, and she’s due in less then two months.
And that’s hard for me.
The holidays were already tough. Thanksgiving came with Addison laughing about how hungry the baby made her, how she couldn’t stop eating the gravy.
Everyone thought it was hilarious. Then Christmas came and they did the gender reveal—blue smoke, cheers, the name announcement—Weston.
I smiled and clapped with everyone else.
I really am happy for them. They’re going to be incredible parents.
But I’m so jealous. And I don’t know how to not feel that way.
Every time we left the big house, I’d start crying before we even hit the end of the driveway. Mason never had to ask why. He just kept one hand on the wheel, the other reaching for mine, not letting go.
Later, when we got home, he’d pull me in close and tell me how proud he was that I held it together until I didn’t have to anymore.
And I’d cry harder because I didn’t want to make anyone feel guilty for their joy.
I don’t want Addison thinking she can’t be excited about her baby.
I don’t want Karissa feeling bad for her postpartum depression.
I don’t want Ella worrying that talking about wanting to be home with the girls more will somehow hurt me.
No one knows what we’re really walking through.
We decided a few months back to tell everyone we weren’t “trying” anymore, just letting things happen naturally.
Jesse and Cody seemed relieved. They both gave Mason a pat on the back, saying something like, “That’s a good idea, man.
Just enjoy married life while you can.” He smiled and laughed it off, like it didn’t sting.
But it was my idea.
I didn’t want questions or sympathy or that careful tone people use when they don’t know what to say. And it worked, no one has asked since. But I do feel alone, like I’m suffering in silence, because no one knows the truth.
Mason thinks we should tell them. He says it would help, that they’d pray with us, support us. That maybe if we shared it, I wouldn’t feel so alone.
But I can’t. I don’t want their pity. I don’t want their soft voices or careful looks. I don’t want to walk into that house and have people hesitate before talking about their babies or pregnancies. I don’t want to be the one they tiptoe around.
I pull the bathroom door open and slam the stupid test I hadn’t even shown him yet onto the dresser. “I’m not going,” I say through tears, before heading downstairs.
Mason’s voice follows me, soft but close behind. “Sweetheart.”
I ignore him, reaching for another coffee mug with shaking hands. I pour until it nearly spills over. His footsteps echo down the stairs and soon I can feel him behind me.
“Megan.”
The tears come harder. My vision blurs, heat rushes to my face, and my throat tightens so much I can barely breathe, let alone speak. A hundred thoughts spin through my head at once, like what people will say if I don’t show up to Easter dinner.
Then Mason’s warm, familiar hands find my waist. He presses his chest against my back, resting his chin gently in the crook of my neck. The comfort nearly undoes me.
“Remember I love you,” he murmurs into the quiet.
I sniffle hard, my voice catching. “I can’t go, Mason.”
He lifts his head, turning me gently so I’m facing him. “Talk to me.”
I swipe at my cheeks, trying to steady myself.
“I just can’t do it today,” I whisper. “I can’t sit there smiling in front of everyone, pretending I’m fine when I’m not.
I can’t sit at that table surrounded by babies when it’s all I want and can’t seem to have.
” The last few words break apart on my tongue.
His blue eyes soften, concern and love written all over his face. He slides a hand over mine, his thumb tracing slow circles on my skin.
“Baby…”
“I don’t want to ruin everything,” I manage, choking on the words. “Everyone’s so happy, and I just— I feel broken.”
“My wife is not broken.” His tone is quiet but steady, every word firm and certain.
“Well, she feels like she is.” My voice cracks again. “You can still go. Just say I’m sick or something—”
“I’m not going anywhere without you.” He shakes his head, that familiar stubbornness surfacing in his voice. “I’m not gonna leave you here like this, crying your eyes out the whole day. Easter or not.”
My bottom lip trembles, and I can’t stop the tears this time. He doesn’t try to fix it. He just pulls me in and lets me fall apart against him, his hand moving in slow, gentle strokes across my back until my breathing evens out.
* * *
The porch swing creaks beneath us. Mason’s arm is draped behind me, the both of us tucked beneath one of our heavier blankets, coffee cups steaming in our hands. It’s cold for April—North Dakota doesn’t like to let go of cold too soon.
Mason sets his phone on the little table beside us, the volume turned up just enough to hear the pastor’s voice for the Easter service live stream. I couldn’t bring myself to go to church in person either. Seeing everyone’s faces, hearing the choir…it’s too much.
So here we are. Just us.
When the sermon ends, soft piano music starts playing. The first few notes of “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” spill through the phone speaker, and that’s all it takes.
My throat tightens. I stare down at the mug in my hands, the rim trembling just slightly as tears start to pool behind my eyes.
Mason shifts beside me, his thumb brushing over the back of my hand under the blanket. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps tracing. That’s one of the things I love most about him—he never rushes me to be okay.
I lean into him, my forehead pressing against his shoulder. His sweatshirt smells faintly of coffee and woodsmoke.
“I feel like everyone else is moving forward,” I whisper. “And I’m just…stuck.”
Mason’s quiet for a long moment before he answers, his voice rough around the edges. “You’re not stuck, Meg. You’re just in the middle of the story.”
We sit like that until the song ends, and even though I’m still hurting, I know God’s here, in the waiting, right beside us on this swing.
* * *
I don’t know what time it is, but Maureen’s soft voice pulls me out of sleep. It’s coming from the front door. Something about food. Of course she brought us some.
The last thing I remember, Mason was sitting at the end of the couch, rubbing my feet while a baseball game played quietly on the TV.
I reach for my phone on the coffee table and squint at the screen. Almost one.
I stay still, listening. Her voice drifts through the doorway, gentle and unhurried. Mason’s low tone answers her, quiet enough that I can’t make out what he’s saying. There’s the sound of a grocery bag rustling, the soft snap of Tupperware lids, and then the door closing again.
I wait a few seconds before opening my eyes fully. I hear him set things on the counter, shuffling containers and plastic bags. She probably gave us enough to feed an army, because that’s just her.
Mason’s footsteps are soft as he crosses back to the living room. He pauses at the threshold, and when I turn my head toward him, he’s standing there, sleeves pushed up, his expression soft.
“Mom brought lunch if you’re hungry.”
“She didn’t have to.”
“She knows that.”
I sit up slowly, brushing my hair back and adjusting the hood of my sweatshirt. “Did she ask what was going on?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. Just didn’t want us to miss out.”
I push the blanket off my legs and follow him into the kitchen. The smells of warm ham, buttery mashed potatoes, and gravy hit first. Then I see the rest—carrots, sweet corn, half a blueberry pie, and those rolls Addison makes that could win awards.
I can’t help but smile. “She really went all out.”
“Are you surprised?” Mason opens the cabinets, pulling out two plates and setting them on the counter.
“Ha, no.” I move beside him, lifting the lid off the container of rolls, steam fogging the air. “She even sent butter.”
Mason laughs and we work quietly, side by side, the clink of serving spoons and plates filling the space between us.
When we finally sit down, he bows his head, his hand sliding over mine. “Lord, thank You for this day, for family who meets us where we are, and for the peace only You can give. Help us trust You with what we don’t understand yet. Amen.”
I look up at him, eyes stinging but warm. “Amen.”