We’d bought a rambling two-story farmhouse on three acres that was at least a hundred years old that I was completely in love with, along with all the history it represented. It was heated with a woodstove and even had an old wood-burning cooking stove that was now on the back porch having made room for my new convection oven. The old woman who owned the farmhouse had been on the property her whole life, ninety-eight years, and had not only been raised in the house, but had raised her own children in the house. I’d hoped to raise my own children here. My hands slowed in the soapy water as my thoughts wound back to the hospital, the nurses and the doctor telling me that I had miscarried. At five weeks, still in my first trimester and within the real danger zone, I’d woken up in the middle of the night to cramping and blood on the sheets. Since then I’d not gone back to my job as a real estate agent, taking a leave of absence to deal with the grief and to give my body time to heal.
