In 1992, I gave birth to a delightful baby boy—an unexpected surprise only because I knew I was having a girl.
No doctor had told me this. No gender reveal. Just the quiet confidence a mother sometimes has—that deep, unshakable feeling. I had already named her in my mind.
Already imagined her curls, her laughter, the dresses I’d buy. I was certain.
So when my son arrived, healthy and wide-eyed, I was thrilled… and a little stunned. The first person we visited afterward was my 90-year-old Eastern European grandmother. She took my hand, leaned in close and whispered, “You did the right thing, having a boy,” as if I had summoned him by choice, not chance.
I smiled politely. But in my heart, I knew I still had time—I was young, confident, and maybe just a little arrogant. There would be another baby. There would be a girl.
Then life happened.
Our journey to grow our family became a road of unexpected turns. We faced unexplained secondary infertility, several heartbreaking miscarriages, a flickering heartbeat that disappeared between one appointment and the next, and maternity clothes pulled from storage only to be folded and tucked away again.
Grief hovered. Friends around us suffered losses too great for words—a beloved couple lost a newborn son. Another friend called me in tears, knowing she’d deliver her stillborn baby boy the next morning.
Life was whispering something to me. Maybe shouting. And eventually, I listened.
I never had the daughter I dreamed of. Instead, I had two more sons—two more loud, messy, wonderful, fascinating boys. For a time, I joked with friends that I had three kids: “two boys and a boy.” People would tilt their heads and respond with soft, sympathetic “ohs,” as if mourning with me. I bristled at their disappointment.
Because they didn’t see what I saw.
One by one, these boys filled every corner of my home and every inch of my heart. With muddy shoes, impossible questions, wrestling matches in the hallway, and sticky peanut butter hugs.
They taught me how to speak boy. They taught me that love doesn’t have to look like the picture you painted in your head. That real connection is wilder, louder, and far more beautiful than I ever imagined.
They’ve grown now—into strong, compassionate men. I’ve watched them become protectors and deep thinkers, fierce friends and gentle partners. I’ve watched their eyes well with tears as they saw their wives walk toward them down the aisle. I’ve seen them hold their newborns with awe and tenderness.
And somewhere along the way, I stopped wondering about the daughter I never had…
Because I realized just how much I had been given.
Not what I planned.
Not what I pictured.
But more than enough. So much more.
I’m amazed.
Really, really amazed.
