The hormone injections.

The doctors’ appointments.

The quiet, devastating tears in the bathroom every time the test came back negative.

Richard had held me through all of it, whispering that we would find a way, that we would be a family.

And then, suddenly, he had come home one evening with a folder full of adoption profiles.

Within three months, Claire was in our arms.

I had thought it was a miracle.

Now, the memory made me feel physically sick.

I turned onto our street.

The oak trees lined the pavement, their branches reaching out like dark fingers against the gray sky.

Our house sat at the end of the cul-de-sac.

It was a beautiful two-story colonial, painted a soft cream color with dark green shutters.

Richard’s silver sedan was parked in the driveway.

The metal of the hood was dull under the overcast light.

I pulled in behind him and switched off the ignition.

The silence in the car was sudden and heavy.

I looked at the front door.

The brass knocker gleamed, polished just last week.