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Jay smiled. “Of course. He’s my grandson.”
Over the years, Martin and I slowly added to that fund. Birthday gifts, work bonuses, refunds—we tucked away what we could. It became a ritual. Not just financial planning, but a way to water the seed of his dreams.
Robert had big dreams. He wanted to be an astrophysicist. Said he’d build a rocket to Pluto. I laughed, but he was so serious—those little fingers turning book pages, his voice low and sure.
But life doesn’t give you a warning before it shatters you.
After Robert passed, we never touched the account. It sat there, sacred and silent. I couldn’t bear to log in, couldn’t see the number that once symbolized a future now gone. It became something we didn’t mention—but we also couldn’t erase it.
Two years ago, we started trying again. I missed feeling like a mom. I thought maybe, just maybe, another child could bring back some light.
“You think it’s time?” I asked Martin one night, barely above a whisper.
“Only if you’re ready,” he said instantly.
I wasn’t. But I nodded anyway.
And that’s when the next kind of heartbreak began.
The emptiness got louder. Not just silence—absence that pressed in. Every negative test felt like the universe mocking our hope.
Each time, I’d drop the test into the trash with trembling fingers and crawl into bed. I’d face the wall and say nothing. Martin would just hold me, no words needed. Just presence.
Words weren’t necessary. The silence carried it all.
“Maybe we’re not meant to,” I whispered one night.
“Maybe… just not yet,” Martin said, kissing my shoulder.
The family knew. They saw us trying. They knew how much we were hurting.
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