Please consider becoming a patron
“I can’t afford it,” he said. About eight years later, both mothers-in-law came together over lunch to jubilate over the accomplishment of a nest egg so that Diane could start nesting. “Is it a boy?” Diane’s mother asked. “Is it a girl?” Jack’s mother asked. “It’s a grandbaby!” they both said, and they ordered champagne.
Diane’s hand was still touching the phone when she felt something go wrong, and without a second thought, she rushed to the hospital, her Ob/gyn on the phone, but something had gone wrong. She lost the baby. It was a miscarriage.
The shock wore off, and the tears dried up, so Jack and Diane tried again. Another little baby appeared in the ultrasound, a squirming gift from God, and another miscarriage. Her Ob/gyn brought in a second doctor to examine the case. Both of them scratched their heads. “Bad luck,” they said. “There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s just bad luck.” Jack took Diane to church to pray.
Tumbling ass over teakettle upon vinyl seats in a late model sports sedan was a joy long gone, but Diane’s comportment had become health-class textbook-efficient and formal, far from enjoyable, and hardly fulfilling in a marriage marked by hard work and fidelity. One morning after, Diane was rummaging in a kitchen drawer, looking for a cereal spoon, when she happened upon one which displeased her greatly. She glared at Jack, holding it before him.