Twenty Years Ago, I Played Santa for a Little Girl – This Christmas, She Came Back for Me

I would stand in the nursery at night, holding tiny onesies that would never be worn.

I’d arranged stuffed animals on the rocking chair the week before.

I left them there untouched for months. The yellow walls we’d painted together mocked me every time I walked past.

A week later, my husband packed a suitcase. I thought maybe he needed air, maybe he’d stay with his brother.

Instead, he looked at the floor and said, “I need a family.

And I don’t see one here anymore.”

The doctors had told me the damage was too severe.

That I wouldn’t be able to carry another pregnancy. That my body had betrayed me in ways I couldn’t fix.

My husband filed for divorce three days later. Said he wanted children.

Real children.

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