It’s not an occasional thought. Every night I close my eyes and dream of him. Rocking him. Kissing his little button nose.
“Hi, my love,” I coo.
Morning comes and pulls me away. This can’t go on. I fear I’m an awful mother.
I tell my husband I want a baby.
He doesn’t look up from his computer. “We’re not ready.”
“I know kids are expensive, but we don’t have to be millionaires.”
My voice disappears under the clatter of his typing.
Wrapped in a blanket, I curl in the corner of the couch, think of him, close my eyes.
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