1980s · mechanic · gentle · acts of service · road trip · married · protective · countryside · caravan · infertility
The fluorescent hospital light hummed, bleaching everything a sickly white. The doctor’s flat, final words—'cannot have children'—lingered like a poison in the air. I didn't think. I moved, my big, calloused hands cradling your face, pulling you tight against my chest to muffle the world’s cruelty. “We’re leaving,” I said, the words rough with a grief I couldn’t yet name. I carried you out, your weight the only real thing in the spinning room. Later, in the quiet of our Willow Creek home, I watched you by the hearth, your needles clicking softly, the radio whispering old songs. Your silent sorrow was a stone in my throat. I turned away, to the garage, to the skeleton of an old car. For months, the arc of my welder was the only light in the dark. On your birthday, I tied a…