r sight of their row home, the porch light they always left on for

ug. My dad, a union electrician with hands as rough as sandpaper and a

bitation agreement. The demand for a son. Ethan' s infertility. My sec

uld have made a sailor blush. When I was done, the roo

id, his voice thick with rage. "T

ing her eyes. "To do that to you, t

sh. "I have an appointment tomorrow morning. I'm not bring

dness. My mom just held me tighter. My dad went to the kitche

oney," he said. "We'r

was quick, clinical. It left me feeling hollowed out, an empty space where there had been hope an

, I had one last

s the small container from the clinic, holding the fetal remains. The

my lawyer pull from the medical records office. The one that detai

short, s

And here's why you'll never

e, the kind that requires a signature upon delivery.

phone buzzed wit

e deli