Rainbow Baby
By Brittany Rainsdon
I don’t remember the exact moment the world turned gray, but I do remember it was a bright summer day. Terrance and I had taken a walk around the greenbelt, shimmering sunlight filtering through the branches of the oak and maple trees, the wind rustling their green leaves, as yellow ducklings swam through the muddy pond water. The cement path meandered through freshly cut grass, the sharp scent mixing with the milkweed that grew along the side road. In the distance lay a small grove of trees and the little white church house we’d been married in two years ago.
Everything was perfect.
Then we walked to our car and drove to the OB-GYN, high on life and all that came with it. “I love you.” Terrance’s giddy smile is still seared in my memory like it’d been burned by a branding iron.
The office was white and clean, the screen gray and black — so I don’t know when the colors faded. Perhaps when I asked the technician if something was wrong and she told me she needed to get the doctor. Or perhaps it was when our OB slicked the probe across my belly, silence filling the room. Maybe it was when he told me, “There’s no heartbeat,” and Terrance squeezed my hand.
But when we came out of the office, the sky was dark, the grass was gray, and my heart felt black. My husband told me he was so sorry, and when I looked at him, his beautiful green eyes were gray.
#
Before we left the office, my OB had pulled out paperwork and scheduled me for a D&C the next morning. That’s “Dilation and Curettage” for the uninitiated. I’d filled out consent forms and the OB contract I’d signed a month ago was shredded. There would be no baby. Apparently, ours had died weeks ago, but my body never recognized the loss. I’d been gaslit by my own hormones.
After the procedure, I never saw what they scraped out of me. “Products of Conception” belonged in the biohazard bin. The doctors never called it a baby. What was I supposed to call it?
#
My husband has never been the type to show affection and sometimes that has bothered me, but over the years we made it a game. I make my needs clear and he pretends to surprise me. It’s goofy, but it works for us. Until it doesn’t. When we arrived home from the hospital, I had no energy to spell out my needs beyond sleep.
But I wanted flowers.
Growing up, my mother told me stories of how my father had paid for beautiful floral arrangements after the delivery of each one of my siblings. In some forgotten conversation, I’d mentioned this to Terrance, and I wanted that kind of thoughtfulness now. But what we lost wasn’t a child, was it? So it didn’t deserve that kind of attention. I couldn’t bring it up.
After my nap, I woke up to get a drink and found carnations on the kitchen table with a note: I love you. The memory of Terrance’s smile and his hope for being a father made my heart ache.
I couldn’t tell what color the carnations were.
#
We had announced our pregnancy on social media; another post marked the end of it. Private messages, phone calls, and emails flooded my inbox. I shut off my cell phone, but eventually I peeked at the messages. Every single one. I didn’t know how to respond, so mostly, I didn’t. With bloodshot eyes, I scrolled on, bile rising in the back of my throat as I blinked back bitter tears.
Some of the messages were encouraging. Some were infuriating. Who tells someone that a dead baby is “God’s will” — that something was wrong with it and that this is nature’s way of preventing future pain? Or that we should be grateful it wasn’t a ‘real’ baby? Was that an acceptable response for any other form of loss?
But worse than saying something infuriating was the silence of those closest to me. The nothing had a way of seeping in. It made me go crazy, like I’d upset myself over something imaginary. I clung to the only ultrasound photo we had, captured at seven weeks.
Yet… did we really suffer a loss if it wasn’t worth recognizing? If there was no substantial proof that life lived inside me? Were we parents to anything? The silence deepened the gray until I felt like I was drowning in it.
#
I didn’t tell my husband about my color problem. It seemed small compared to what had just happened, and in some ways, I was grateful for the dark. It protected me from the cruel colors of the living.
At least, I was grateful until he asked if we should try again. I couldn’t tell him about the colors then. What if this repeated? Would the world go black?
#
We didn’t change our summer plans. Family reunions scheduled months in advance would be attended. And so, I found myself camping with my in-laws at a place called Warm Water Reservoir — it was anything but.
Armed with a sweatshirt and sunglasses, I stretched across the grass and dangled my feet over the edge of the muddy bank, testing the frigid water with my toes.
My husband’s extended family crowded the campground, but most people kept their distance. A few young children waded in shallow swells, splashing and giggling as parents looked on from picnic tables.
“I know how you feel.”
My spine went rigid. What part of sweatshirt, sunglasses, and crossed arms said anything other than ‘stay away?’
Terrance’s cousin, Marcee, slid onto the grass next to me, clutching a new infant. She stroked his cheek. I could smell his new baby scent.
No. She did not know how I felt.
We sat in silence, and I listened to him squirm, clawing at her shirt. Hungry. She let him latch and then took a breath. “We had three miscarriages before Thomas. One at eight weeks, one at eleven, and one at nineteen. Each nearly ripped my heart out. I don’t think it matters how far along you are.”
I swallowed, focusing on the ripples in the gray water and the goosebumps traveling up my legs. I’d said the same thing to my mother a week ago, but she’d assumed a first trimester loss was somehow less devastating and that I should be grateful it wasn’t worse. After all, twelve weeks was hardly pregnant.
“I’m so sorry. How you see the world is never the same after a miscarriage. And people don’t like to acknowledge it, so they leave you lonely in your grief. Which is somehow worse than if they offered rote platitudes. If you want to talk…” Her voice trailed off.
I chewed on my tongue, interested, but afraid to share how much. It stung, sitting so close to her and her baby, but seeing the world differently — that sounded like my color problem. So I stayed.
She paused. “How are you?”
I readjusted my sunglasses and shrugged.
“Listen…” She shifted the baby to her other arm. “This doesn’t happen to everyone, but it did to me, and you look like… When we lost our first, I saw in black and white for two years. I know, it sounds crazy, but the way you’re acting, maybe your eyes are doing the same thing.”
“Or maybe I just like being alone?” I snapped.
“Maybe.” She shook her head. “Or maybe you’re hurting. Just so you know, Thomas was the only thing that brought my color back. He’s my rainbow baby.” She leaned forward and smiled, cooing into her baby’s tiny face. “There’s a reason they’re called that.”
My heart clenched as I watched her, jealousy and anger bubbling hot. If she knew how I felt, what I was seeing, why would she put on such a display?
She looked up, face tender. “Don’t worry. It’ll happen for you, too. Just be patient.” Her warm palm tapped my arm.
But her words slapped, as icy as the water.
#
Fall came and I saw my first color since the loss. On a stick of white: two pink lines.
My heart constricted, and I felt as though it were beating in my throat. I slid the pregnancy test underneath the liner of the trash can. The thunk from it hitting the bottom of the tin wastebasket reminded me of the two other sticks there, both with double sets of lines. They could hide there, underneath the rest of the garbage, until I was certain and ready to hope again.
A rainbow baby.
This is what Marcee said would bring the color back. She wasn’t the only one who’d offered that advice — to try again, to have a baby. I’d read it over and over again in private messages. But what would happen if this pregnancy didn’t work out?
Later that night, I looked up the due date. If this pregnancy stuck, I’d have a baby on the same day I miscarried the year before.
#
I kept my secret for a week, and the pinks deepened until I saw different shades and hues. Beautiful crimson leaves fluttered into our driveway. Red, I realized. It was red.
But I didn’t tell Terrance. I was afraid. Afraid of what the due date meant. Afraid that my body would let me down again. Afraid that I was lying if I told my husband and didn’t deliver on my promise. But mostly, I was afraid that this new pregnancy would be taken from us again and I’d only see black.
When we took our Sunday walk, I noticed more colors in the leaves. Red, orange, yellow — the colors of fire. I realized I was letting myself dream. We walked in silence for a long time, holding hands, while I considered. I didn’t want to burden Terrance, but now seemed the time to tell.
When I finally spoke, his eyes turned green.
#
We didn’t announce our pregnancy, choosing instead to relish each milestone on our own. At seven weeks, I noticed the carnations I’d left to be dried above the kitchen window. Blue.
He’d wanted a son. Maybe we would have one.
#
At nine weeks I allowed myself to look up rainbow baby pictures — photos taken of newborns, wrapped in colorful scarves and hats. Some were given obvious names like Hope, Joy, or less obvious ones like Luke (for light) or Asher (meaning blessed). I wanted to embrace our rainbow — but the storm still felt too close. I wasn’t ready to hope too hard yet.
#
The colors came back quickly now, everything but violet, and I wanted something to help myself look beyond my loss. Life had to go on. I had to let go. I browsed online for inspiration, eventually landing on jewelry. There were commemorative necklaces, nameplates with baby feet and due dates, angel wing bracelets — but all of it screamed miscarriage. I wanted something subtle. Something I could actually wear and not have to talk about if I didn’t want to.
I came to a webpage that sold wire bird’s nest necklaces with beads wrapped in the center as eggs. They were subtle. Pearl beads represented ‘angel’ babies and cracked blue beads (like robin eggs) were living children. The lady who ran the company even sold necklaces with rainbow beads for the special children who came after loss.
I emailed the company to see if they’d take a custom order on a bird’s nest necklace with a pearl and a rainbow bead.
They said they’d have it done in a week.
#
The next morning, Terrance woke early for a business trip. As he packed the last of his things, I sat on the bed and nervously plucked at the zipper on his suitcase. I had a headache, but that wasn’t the only thing bothering me.
“Hey…” Terrance slid the suitcase off the bed and sat down next to me. The mattress sank, shifting my body toward his. “Are you okay?” He rubbed my arm. “Your face looks…”
“It’s just a headache,” I lied. I mean, I did have a headache, but my stomach kept twisting in knots. It felt as if I was teetering on the edge of a cliff.
“I’ll call as soon as I land and…” Terrance frowned. “What’s going on? You can’t expect me to leave when you’re like this.”
“It’s just…” I struggled to find the words. Nervous or uneasy didn’t cut it. Terrified felt more accurate, but I couldn’t say that. Instead, I gestured at my stomach. Terrance’s eyes went wide.
“Is something wrong with—”
“No,” I said. “It’s not that.” Terrance let out a breath. “I’m fine. The baby is fine. Everything is fine. I just… I keep thinking about what if? What if something happens while you're gone? What if I’m alone and bleeding and I have to tell your mother? What if I need a ride to the hospital and—”
Terrance pulled me close. “Don’t think about the ‘what ifs’.”
I couldn’t look at his face. “Terrance, I’m still scared.”
“I know,” he whispered. “But what if I come home next week, and you’re happy and healthy and we get to see another sonogram? And what if you have a smooth pregnancy, and in six months we find out our baby has your eyes and my dimples and—”|
I shook my head, not wanting to imagine. “Terrance, don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
I didn’t answer.
Terrance darkened. “Do you want me to cancel my trip?”
“No, you need to go.”
“Nothing bad is going to happen,” he said. “Do you remember what the doctor said about the statistics?”
Of course I did. She’d explained the math, how most people went on to have a healthy baby after miscarrying. Ours was just a fluke. “Yes, Terrance but…” Over his shoulder, I saw the clock on the wall. I’d held him up far too long, and if he was going to make his flight, he needed to leave. “You better get going.”
He studied me for a moment, then pecked me on the cheek. “Everything will be fine.”
And I believed.
That is, until the bleeding started.
#
Last time, I never saw how bright the blood was. The world had already turned dark, making what came out of me after the Dilation and Curettage only dark streaks on maxi-pads. I think the loss of color helped me minimize the hurt and distance myself from what was happening.
This time, there were crimson clots in the toilet that I couldn’t block out.
I called my OB’s office, but my doctor wasn’t there, so his partner said she’d see me. “Come right in. We’ll make room for you.”
She asked for urine for a pregnancy test and drew blood, but before she told me the news, I knew what was happening. “Your numbers are really low. Can you come back in two days, just to be sure?”
To be sure I’m miscarrying, or that the baby is already dead? I didn’t ask for an ultrasound.
The world returned to gray again. I told my husband about the loss over the phone.
#
When my new lab results came in Friday morning, the second OB referred me to a counselor who deals with ‘cases like these.’ She also told me I could miscarry at home, as the bleeding had already started. It could take up to two weeks.
And even though Terrance was on his flight home, they told me not to wait to see the counselor. I wasn’t sure what they could say or if something needed to be said without my husband, but I showed up anyway. It felt better than bleeding alone.
This office was different. No metal gurneys or exam chairs. No white walls or silver wash bins. No black and white sonograms. Just smooth leather couches, framed art, and waxy potted plants, all still in various shades of gray.
There was another couple in the waiting room — a woman with round sunglasses — who flipped through a magazine while her partner stared on, his knuckles white from gripping the armrest.
The receptionist waved me toward the desk and handed me a few forms to fill out. I gave her my insurance cards, signed a few papers, and found a chair in the corner. While waiting, I sat back and scrolled through my phone to distract myself, when a notification popped up about the order for my custom necklace with my rainbow bead. Numbness spread across my chest. I pulled up a new tab and emailed the company to cancel my order. They could keep my money. I hit send, then lowered my head and shoved my phone deep into my pocket.
The woman with the sunglasses was called back. Fifteen minutes later, the receptionist returned and called me over.
She directed me to a room that felt more like a lounge than an office, where a petite woman clutching a notepad sat in a leather armchair, one leg crossed over the other. The receptionist gestured to her. “Let me introduce you to Sarah.”
“Hello,” I said. After we shook hands, I retreated to the couch opposite her. The receptionist took her leave, and as the door clicked shut, the gray crept in.
“I hear this is your second miscarriage?” Sarah raised an eyebrow.
I pressed my lips together. This woman knows nothing. “Yes.”
“Were the colors starting to come back after the pregnancy test?”
My throat thickened. She stared at me, deep gray eyes boring in. I suddenly realized I wasn’t referred here for my miscarriages. “You can’t see them now, can you?”
I pulled away, shaking my head.
“That’s normal — for many women, anyways. Men, too. People think they’ve gone crazy, keeping their grief bottled up. Then the color runs away from them. It’s almost as disturbing as the loss.”
“I’m not bottling anything up.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow. “No?”
I shrugged.
She shook her head. “Sometimes you have to work through grief. It’s not something you get over. A new baby won’t replace the last. You won’t wake up one day and suddenly forget. This is something you’ll carry with you forever.”
“But I saw color.” I choked, remembering the advice of Marcee and the rest. A new baby was the answer. It had to be.
Sarah put down her notepad and leaned forward. She took a deep breath. “Color comes from love. When it hurts too much to love, color can drain. But you opened yourself to love again. Some people never do.”
My voice caught, and I swallowed down the thickness until I squeaked. “What if I don’t get pregnant again? What if we lose another one?”
Sarah shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Let yourself feel your grief. Let yourself love what you lost and open yourself to love others, too. Love yourself. Then you’ll see color again. It doesn’t come from a new baby.”
Sarah made it sound so simple. So neat. But this wasn’t simple. My throat tightened. “How?” I asked.
“How?” Sarah tilted her head to the side.
“Yes.” My voice grew cold. “How? How exactly am I supposed to feel my grief any more acutely than I am now? How am I supposed to love anything at all when I feel like… like…” I shook my head, at a loss for words.
“Well,” Sarah leaned back, steepling her hands. “You get to decide. However you want to mourn, for however long, in whatever way. We will talk through it, of course. But you decide. All I ask is for commitment.”
“What kind of commitment?”
Sarah shrugged. “To our visits. To your plan of care. To your recovery. We’ll make a contract, we’ll both sign it, and—”
“Oh,” I exhaled, voice tight. “I get it. You want to get paid.”
Sarah pursed her lips. “Anger is part of grief, but stewing in that place isn’t going to help with your color recovery.”
“I’m not—”
Sarah raised her voice. “I can refer you to someone else, if you want to try a different approach. I won’t charge for today. Just know this: my color recovery rate is unmatched. I require work. I require commitment. But I get results. So, I ask again, are you willing to commit? Or would you like me to refer you to another counselor?” She lifted her chin as her gray eyes drilled into mine.
Silence permeated the room. I hesitated. Sarah was right; I was angry, and I didn’t like how she seemed to be staring into my soul and judging me.
But I wanted to see color again. I couldn’t let anger or pride stop me. I motioned for her papers. “What do I need to sign?”
#
For my first assignment, Sarah explained how she wanted me to find a way to honor our loss. It didn’t have to be elaborate. Honoring my babies could be as simple as releasing a balloon or writing a letter or planting a tree.
I intended to brainstorm with Terrance once he got home, but my hands longed to be busy, so I stopped at the craft store. As I wandered the aisles, an idea emerged, and I loaded my cart with supplies. The wire wasn’t cheap, and neither were the beads or bird charms, but if that was the cost my grief demanded, I would pay it. Fifty dollars later, I slipped in the car and headed home.
Once inside the house, I got to work.
#
The bird’s nest necklaces weren’t hard to make. I watched a few tutorials and tested out different twists. I added bird charms and placed the finished products in cardboard jewelry boxes with cotton backing. Then I typed a note for each: Not everyone gets to hatch. Wishing you peace on your journey.
That evening, I packed up what I had and headed to the hospital, praying this would work.
#
“We already do things for stillborn babies. We have a program.” The director of nursing pressed his lips together, sifting through the grocery bag at my offerings. His office smelled like the hospital — antiseptic and cleaners — and it felt cold enough to raise gooseflesh.
I drew a breath. “Then don’t use them for stillborn babies. Give them to mothers who are miscarrying. I know from experience; you do nothing for them, and they’ve lost something, too.”
He stared at me, shifted the bag into another hand and frowned. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“You do that.” I nodded. “But if you don’t want to use my donation, call me. Someone else will use them.”
As I walked away, my chest squeezed. I’d acknowledged my loss to someone who’d acted as though my grief was somehow unfounded. Exaggerated. Unworthy.
I am not wrong for grieving.
Letting out another breath, I pushed open the hospital door and stepped into the cold embrace of late fall. Wind swept up gray leaves and the scent of damp earth filled the air. But the evening chill didn’t penetrate, and a lingering bit of pride burned within.
And in the distance, I saw a patch of pink in the sky.
#
The days passed quickly. I didn’t cry the first night when my husband returned — I think we were both in shock — but the next night, both of us crumbled on the couch, a storm of gray upon us. I finally told Terrance about the colors.
He’d suspected. Marcee had warned him about the risks months ago, after the family reunion.
We talked about “what ifs” and what we could change — but most of it, we couldn’t. All we could do was figure out how to weather the storm. I kept making necklaces to donate, letting a little bit of light and color in with each creation. And I realized why I’d been sent to the counselor in the first place.
Sometimes, rainbow babies don’t come. Sometimes, we have to find our own rainbows during the storm.
#
We spent the next month in therapy. Our counselor loved the donation idea, and so I threw myself into work. Grief was an excellent motivator, and soon our living area was littered with wire, beads, and boxes. By the end of the month, we’d donated nearly a hundred necklaces, and I’d finally seen a bit more color; in the yellow ribbons I tied the boxes with.
Terrance was so supportive. He always said the right things, held me when I cried, cooked dinner, danced with me in the kitchen. And even though he told me — over and over — that he loved me, I often wondered if he secretly resented me.
#
Terrance insisted we’d find comfort at church, and so we started attending again. At first, he was right. People were always kind, and I loved singing hymns with the congregation, but sometimes, things said — from pulpit or pew — disquieted me:
“Whatever accolades or accomplishments you pursue, remember this: God has no greater calling than motherhood.”
“I never knew what love was until I became a parent.”
“I’m so grateful that God trusted me with one of his precious children.”
I know they meant well, but what followed these sentiments wasn’t warmth, but shame. Invariably, I found myself zoning out, studying the craftsmanship of the chapel’s stained-glass windows and pretending their words didn’t matter.
Until the Sunday that they did.
A cool breeze rustled as we made our way through the gravel parking lot and into the church house. We were running a tad late. The sky above rumbled and I shivered, pulling my cardigan close. The weatherman had predicted thunderstorms that afternoon, but so far, the clouds held.
We entered the chapel to find it surprisingly full, with unfamiliar faces seated in our usual pew. A little flushed, we shuffled to the only empty seats — in the front row — as the pastor stood to welcome everyone.
We opened our hymnals as the choir director led us in singing Amazing Grace. I settled against my husband. When the song ended, someone offered a muffled prayer, and the pastor returned to the pulpit. He talked about the blessings of heaven and family — and my eyes drifted once again to the stained-glass window. It was a depiction of the garden of Eden, where pink peaches and golden apples hung from the trees, and if I squinted, I could almost discern the green in the leaves.
I’d been making such progress with my colors.
Suddenly, thunder split the air, shaking the chapel. I jumped. The pastor made a joke about God showing his approval, and I returned to studying the glass. The colors seemed to darken with the clouds. Before long, rain spat and poured down the windows like a waterfall.
“…and Rosalyn and Robert certainly do have cause to celebrate!” The pastor clapped his hands, motioning now at a family in the congregation.
Rosalyn, a woman I’d only met once before — and subsequently avoided, because she’d been heavily pregnant — now proudly held up her new baby, dressed in a white suit. My body went cold. This was why the chapel was so full. Rosalyn had brought her tiny infant son to bless him, and their family had come to watch.
I couldn’t be here.
But we were in the front, and if I stood up, everyone would notice.
I sank into my seat, fingers tightening around the bench. The pastor was prattling on and on about children and the blessings of new life. I tried to sit still, to pray silently, to focus on the stained glass, but I kept thinking about how God didn’t trust me with a child.
How I must have done something wrong.
When the woman and her baby waddled forward, I felt it: the hot, uncontrollable pressure of bitterness long held.
I gasped. For air, for freedom, for — God, I couldn’t breathe. Clutching my chest, I looked up, staring into the stained-glass window. Moments ago, it’d been a rich mosaic of color, but now it was washed in nothing but black.
What had I done? As the prayer began, a blasphemous wail ripped from my throat and every head whipped in my direction.
I ran.
Covering my eyes, I shoved my way down the aisle until I was bursting through the chapel doors. Above, the sky crackled with thunder. Wind howled. Rain pelted against my skin.
I kept running.
I had to get away, away from the judgment and embarrassment and pain. Away from the failure of my body. Away from the words the pastor and church members had spoken, the words I’d silently repeated to myself.
I fumbled forward, wet hair plastered against my forehead as I headed for the grove of trees by the river. My vision tunneled. Disoriented, I splashed through puddles and squelched through the mud, ruining my high heels, until I collapsed onto the wet grass. I tried to steady my breathing. A boom split the air and a crackle of light flashed overhead. It was the last thing I saw before my vision yielded to the darkness; I went blind.
I screamed into the dark. “Why!”
And in response, all those reasons I’d bottled up screamed back:
The Tylenol. The chocolate in my less-than-perfect diet. My bath that might have been just a tad too warm. The lunchmeat I’d eaten before knowing better. But worse still was the lingering suspicion that there simply was no physical reason at all. That my miscarriages happened because God wanted them to. Because God didn’t trust me to be a mother. I was too broken. Unworthy.
Everyone said things happened for a reason.
I was the reason.
The image of that new baby in the chapel burned in my mind’s eye. I was bitter, angry, and jealous. And I hated it.
There would be no rainbow baby for me — for us.
I placed my hands against my face and wept, my chest heaving along with the thrashing gales. I don’t know for how long I stayed like that, curled in the mud, soaked clothes glued to my skin, but long enough for the thunderclaps to dissolve into distant rumbles. Long enough for my anger to fade into sadness. Long enough for my sadness to melt into despair.
What would happen now?
The creek beside me gurgled, swollen from all the rain, which had now thinned to a slow drizzle. Cautiously, I guarded my breath and opened my eyes. Somehow, my vision had returned. At least, the gray part of it had. I stood, wiping my dirty hands on my skirt as I surveyed the riverbank. A mix of debris swirled in the current, bits snagging on the roots of a downed tree and —
I stopped.
There, sitting on the far side of the log, his shoes removed and soaking in the grass, his toes buried under the current of the creek, sat my husband.
Dread swelled in my chest as I imagined what he’d witnessed when I ran from the church house. Ugly, awful thoughts crashed through my mind. All the things I should say, all the things I wanted to scream. I swallowed them and stepped — hesitantly — across the wet ground.
With a calm that betrayed the chaos raging within, I sat down beside my husband and watched the water rush past
. “When I was a kid,” Terrance spoke, as if in a trance, “my friend Bobby lived just down the road from here, and he had this hunting dog that followed him everywhere he went. One day, we were making our way back from the creek, and his dog runs ahead of him, gets out on the open road right as a truck is barreling past. We didn’t see it happen, only saw his dog laying there on the pavement, whimpering, his leg all torn up.”
“That’s awful,” I swallowed. “But why are you telling me this?”
Terrance looked at me, and I couldn’t tell if his eyes were wet from the rain or something else. “Because his dad wanted to put that dog down, said he was no good anymore. But Bobby wouldn’t have it. The vet removed his leg, and Bobby kept him in his room for the next month until he could walk again, even if on three legs. Thing is, that dog not only survived, it went on to live another 10 years. The accident didn’t slow him down one bit. In fact, it made him even stronger, and if you asked Bobby about it, he’d tell you without blinking: that dog was the best dog he ever had.”
That’s when I noticed what was in Terrance’s hands: an envelope, soaked from all the rain. He brushed his thumb across the front where smudged ink bled out my name.
“What’s that?” I croaked, my throat sore and dry from crying. I wiped my eyes.
“Why don’t you read it and see?” Terrance held out the envelope. I scooted closer and took it.
The note hadn’t been sealed. Taking a deep breath, I slid out an embossed thank-you card. Margaret Anne Richards, a woman in our congregation, had received one of the necklaces I’d made. Nine weeks. Twins. No one knew about the losses except her husband, but now… My lower lip trembled as I scanned the message a second time. Then I carefully tucked the card back in the envelope and slid a little closer to Terrance. He wrapped an arm around me.
We sat together in silence as the last of the raindrops slid down the branches. The river finally stilled to a calm, and Sarah’s words returned to me: “You have to let yourself feel your grief.”
Maybe we wouldn’t have a child. Maybe our lives wouldn’t turn out like we planned. And maybe that’s what grieving was, accepting the things out of our control. Even the death of our children, our dreams, and everything we thought we were.
Everything we thought we would become.
Terrance shifted and nudged me, but when I looked up at him, he only pointed, his eyes on something in the distance. I frowned, then followed his gaze, squinting through the trees. Across the water, I saw a brilliant strip of sky standing apart from the gray; bright and loud and in seven different colors.
A rainbow.
~~~
