The nondescript brick building in the Pearl District of downtown Portland looked exactly the same as it had the last time we were here. Our last appointment with Bonita “Bonnie” Hawthorne, Licensed Professional Counselor, had gone surprisingly well. But the fact that we never returned was not because we were magically cured, and it certainly wasn’t Bonnie’s fault. Jack and I were just too stubborn to believe that our marriage couldn’t be fixed with a stiff drink and a hard fuck.

The receptionist, who’d flirted with Jack on our first appointment with Bonnie, made no attempt at coquettish advances this time around. I liked to think that this time, Jack and I didn’t appear as broken as we did that day. Today, we arrived at Bonnie’s office with confidence in our strides, smiles on our faces, love in our hearts, and a five-month-old fetus growing in my belly.

We took a seat on one of the two gray couches facing each other in Bonnie’s office.

Jack grabbed a throw pillow from his corner of the sofa and placed it behind my back. “Is that okay?”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

A beaming smile spread across Bonnie’s round face as she watched us from the other couch with her yellow legal pad and ballpoint pen in hand. “You two look much healthier,” she remarked. “Especially you, Laurel. I take it you’re eating again?”

I laughed. “Oh, yeah. Anything I can get my sausage fingers on.”

Bonnie giggled. “That’s so great to hear. I’m really happy to see you two. It’s not every day you see a couple come in after they’ve sorted things out. That’s a great portent for what I assume will be a long, happy marriage.” She wrote something down on her notepad. “So I guess we’ll start out with the usual questions.”

Number of years we’d been together: Nine.

Our current living situation: Happily married and on the verge of moving into a new home in Sherwood.

Did we have any physical or mental health issues? I told her how my primary care physician believed my general anxiety disorder was getting better every day with a healthier diet and exercise regimen, as well as daily meditation. Jack informed her we were both still struggling with the grief, but his therapist and my group counseling had helped some. We planned to continue those after we moved to Sherwood. And, of course, I was very obviously pregnant, which we admitted was not planned, but we could not be happier.

I pressed a finger to the bridge of my nose as I began to feel tears coming. “Sometimes, I feel guilty for being so happy without Junior,” I admitted.

Bonnie sighed. “Survivor’s guilt is a powerful emotion. It can keep us from enjoying life’s simple pleasures and great victories. And it can also serve as a reminder that you are a survivor. And if we want to honor the memory of those we’ve lost, the best way to do that is to appreciate every joyous moment to the fullest. It’s important to continue to practice compassionate self-talk. What do you tell yourself in these moments of guilt?”

I shrugged. “Probably exactly what you’d expect. ‘You’re a bad person… How can you be happy when he’s gone?… You don’t deserve to be happy.’” I paused for a moment before I repeated the worst thought that crossed my mind with overwhelming frequency. “‘You’ll never be a good mother.’”

“It’s natural to have these thoughts, right?” Jack asked as he squeezed my hand.

Bonnie nodded. “I want to share with you both one of my favorite quotes on grief. I love it so much, I’ve committed it to memory.” She cleared her throat and took a deep breath before she continued. “Grief instills, to varying degrees, an identity crisis, as our existing commitments are brought into sharp relief by the death of someone on whose continued existence we had depended… Michael Cholbi wrote that. He’s a professor of philosophy whom I greatly admire. Philosophy isn’t always the most accessible path to understanding emotions, but I believe he’s distilled this phenomenon into something easily understandable for grieving parents such as yourselves. The point is, you don’t have to be a philosopher to understand the meaning of his words.” She paused for a moment then looked Jack in the eye. “You both experienced a horrific trauma. In fact, studies show that the most traumatic event a human can experience is the death of a loved one. Believe it or not, the PTSD from finding your son the way you did is secondary to the identity crisis that followed the loss of your child. And in your case, Laurel, your mother and child. Your identity as a mother and daughter, and your identity as a father, were swiftly and brutally stripped away.

“Suddenly, you no longer had to wake up for three a.m. feedings and diaper changes. You no longer had to worry about whether there were harmful carcinogens in your food that could be passed on to your baby through your breastmilk. You no longer had to separate the laundry and use baby detergent. You no longer had to call or visit your mother on a regular basis, or remember to get a Mother’s Day gift. You no longer had to call to ask Laurel if she needed you to stop and get diapers on your way home from work. You no longer had to set money aside for Junior’s college education. All these tasks and concerns, especially the ones that sometimes kept you up at night worrying, had become part of your identity. You welcomed these responsibilities because they came with the privilege of knowing and loving your mother and child. This is why grief is so difficult for humans to process, because grief is an identity crisis. Your identities depended on Jack Jr. and Beth’s existence. Stripped of those identities, the commitments that survived — maintaining your health and the health of your marriage — suddenly felt insignificant and, at times, downright impossible.”

“I can’t believe I never thought of it that way,” I whispered.

Bonnie smiled. “Oh, please don’t beat yourself up over it. Grief as an identity crisis is a fairly recent idea to take root in psychology, but everyone who’s grieved the loss of a loved one — as most of us have — immediately understands the concept. Identity is so important to humans, that many of us will actually refuse to believe something that threatens our identity. Laurel, I believe you once admitted to me that you sometimes pretended that your mother and son hadn’t even died. That’s actually quite common, especially with grieving parents.”

I chuckled as I wiped tears from my cheeks. “It’s nice to know I’m not alone in my crazy coping mechanisms.”

“Unfortunately, you’re not,” Bonnie replied. “But I see enormous progress in the both of you. I really hope you continue to challenge the negative self-talk. You both absolutely deserve all the happiness that comes to you. As does the new baby. Congratulations, by the way.”

I left Bonnie’s office feeling as if a ten-ton slab of concrete had been lifted off my chest. No longer did I have to wonder why losing Junior made me feel so inadequate, or why I feared I’d never be good enough. It was a relief to know I had a new tool to help me hold onto my objectivity in those moments when I felt as if I were drowning in my grief.

Jack and I arrived at Bistro 23 in northeast Portland at a few minutes to two p.m. As the hostess left to check if our dining companion had arrived, Jack’s hands landed on my shoulders, kneading away the tension as we waited for the hostess to return.

He leaned down and whispered in my ear. “Is it just him or is he with someone?”

“Just him,” I replied, smiling at the blonde hostess as she walked back toward the hostess station.

She nodded in the direction she came from. “He’s over here. Right this way.”

We followed her through the dining area and around a corner toward the far table at the other end of the restaurant, where a fresh-faced Dylan was waving at us. He was wearing a royal-blue blazer over his usual band T-shirt — today it was The White Stripes — and a beaming smile that filled my heart with pure joy.

“You look so happy,” I said as we hugged. “Are those new glasses?”

Dylan flashed Jack a stiff smile as he took a seat again. “Has it been that long since you’ve seen me? I got these glasses, like, a month ago.”

Jack held out my chair for me to sit. “I thought you two hung out a couple weeks ago.”

I shook my head as I reached for the glass of ice water nearest to me. “I’m sorry. I must not have noticed the glasses then. Is this my water?”

“Yes, drink up,” Dylan replied, picking up his menu. “So, are you in some sort of pregnant brain fog, or something?”

Jack chuckled. “You could say that again.”

I nudged him with my elbow and picked up my menu. “He’s referring to the fact that I accidentally took two showers yesterday, like, four hours apart. I totally forgot I’d already showered.”

“She was subconsciously trying to scrub away her dirty thoughts,” Jack remarked with a grin as he stared at his menu.

I rolled my eyes. “I take it Barley Legal hired you on full-time?” I said, motioning to the new glasses and spiffy new blazer.

Dylan wiggled his dark-blond eyebrows. “You’re looking at the newest marketing assistant for Barley Legal Brewery. I’ll even have enough saved up to move out of Avery’s spare bedroom next month.”

“How’s Avery?” I asked.

“He’s great. Surprisingly cool with me bringing my dates to the apartment.”

I wiggled my eyebrows this time. “Ooh. Tell me more about these dates. Hookups or anything serious?”

Dylan glanced at Jack, which made Jack laugh out loud.

“I have to use the restroom. Feel free to chat about your Grindr hookups without me,” Jack said, patting my shoulder as he walked away to find the men’s room.

I shook my head as I turned back to Dylan. “Spit it out before he gets back.”

Dylan swallowed hard. “Okay, this is probably a weird question, but… What am I supposed to do with my hands when I’m getting a BJ? I don’t feel comfortable putting them on his head. That feels like I’m forcing him, or something. That’s not me. So what do I do? Help.”

I laughed. “Well, first of all, whatever you’re doing, I hope you’re being safe.”

His eyes widened. “Uh, yeah. Of course. So what do I do with my hands.”

I tried not to laugh. “Well, I don’t know what other people do, but when Jack goes down on me, I usually… pump my fists in the air and yell, ‘Woohoo! Yeah!’”

Dylan shook his head, but I continued, undeterred.

“And sometimes I just wave my arms in the air like those inflatable tube men at car dealerships.”

He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing.

“Oh, oh, oh. Oh, yeah,” I continued. “Sometimes, I just clap my hands and giggle. But when I’m giving Jack a BJ, he usually lifts free weights. He likes working on his bicep curls. Sometimes, he’ll try patting his head and rubbing his belly at the same time. But our standard go-to is usually just jazz hands.”

“You’re evil!” he said unable to hold in his laughter. “I hate you!”

I reached forward and squeezed his hand. “I love you, too. Just sit back and enjoy.” I took another sip of water as Jack approached the table. “So how’s everything with your mom?”

Dylan shrugged. “Not much better, unfortunately.”

I gave his hand another squeeze. “She’ll come around. And if she doesn’t, I’m more than happy to adopt you.”

“We’ll definitely have enough room for you at the new house,” Jack replied.

Dylan’s eyes lit up. “When will the new house be ready?”

I glanced at Jack, as he was the one who knew all the dates and measurements.

“Should be complete by early July, about a month before the baby comes.”

A sly grin spread across Dylan’s face. “Perfect. You guys can expect to see my pasty body chilling by your pool all summer.”

I laughed. “We actually have a meeting with the architect today. I’ll make sure to tell him we need an enormous sunblock dispenser built into the deck… for my adopted son.”

As Dylan and Jack laughed at my comment, I had a sobering realization. This was the first time I had made a joke about parenthood since Junior’s death. I laughed along with the two most handsome men in my life without guilt or shame, and only a tiny bit of sorrow.

“I can’t find them!” I shouted toward the glass double doors leading into the master bath. “I can’t lose my engagement and wedding ring the day before our anniversary. Please help me find them!”

Jack came out of the bathroom in boxer briefs and a gray T-shirt, pulling a toothbrush out of his mouth. “Pixie, I already told you to stop stressing. It’s not good for the baby. We’ll find the rings tomorrow. It’s almost midnight.”

I pressed my fingers into my eyelids and rubbed my eyes. “I’m so anxious right now. I have a bad feeling the baby’s coming early. I need those rings, Jack. Please.”

“Are you in pain?” he asked, glancing at my enormous belly.

“No… I mean, I’m really uncomfortable. I feel like my dinner still hasn’t digested and my back is hurting a little. Please help me find the rings. I feel like it’s bad luck to celebrate our anniversary without the rings.”

“Baby, we had dinner six hours ago,” he said, rubbing my lower back. “Are you feeling sick?”

I shook my head. “You’re not listening to me, Jack. I want to find my rings. I need to find my—” My mouth dropped open and I grabbed onto his bicep as I was hit with a contraction. “Oh, God. Oh, God, I’m going into labor.”

“Oh, fuck,” Jack muttered, guiding me toward the bed. “Sit down. I have to get dressed. Just… don’t move.”

“Oh, my God. Jack, I need my rings.”

“Not now!” he shouted back at me as he disappeared inside the walk-in closet.

I kneaded my fist into my lower back as I whispered to myself, “How could I lose my rings? I haven’t even worn them for a month. Stupid sausage fingers. I know I put them in the jewelry box. Wait. Did I put them in the jewelry box? Oh, God. I can’t remember where I put them. I can’t believe I lost my rings.”

Jack rushed out of the closet fully clothed with the canvas weekender bag I packed for the hospital weeks ago. “Baby, forget about the rings. Can you walk down the stairs? Do you need me to carry you?”

I laughed. “As if you’d be able to carry me in this condition.”

He dropped the bag on the floor and, as if I’d dared him, scooped me up in his arms. “I’ll come back for the bag.”

I held tightly to his neck as he carried me down the stairs and carefully set me down just outside the door leading into the attached garage. Opening the door, he led me to the passenger seat of the new Subaru he bought for me for safety reasons. He raced inside and was back with the bag in seconds. We were pulling into the hospital parking lot at Kaiser Westside Medical Center thirty-one minutes later.

My fourth contraction hit as Jack pulled up in front of the hospital entrance.

“Stay there. I’ll get a wheelchair,” he said rushing out of the car and into the sliding doors, emerging seconds later with my rolling chariot and a hospital employee in a navy-blue cardigan.

I stepped out onto the curb and Jack helped me into the wheelchair. “My phone. I left it on the console.”

He snatched it out of the car and handed it to me. “Text me the room number, if you can. I have to park the car.”

“Hurry. Please,” I pleaded as the woman pushed my wheelchair toward the sliding doors.

“Don’t worry,” she assured me as we entered the hospital lobby. “You don’t need to text your husband. They will recognize him in the labor and delivery unit. He will find you quickly.”

“Thank you,” I whispered as I began to feel another contraction coming. “Will my midwife be called? I need her here. She knows everything. I’m not due for another four days.”

The woman laughed. “As soon as your husband checks you in, if they have not already been notified, your midwife and doctor will be contacted immediately. Just breathe and try to relax. Everyone else will take care of the rest.”

“Oh, my God!” I cried, my entire body tensing as she pushed the wheelchair into the elevator. “She just pushed the pee out of me. I peed myself.”

“Oh, honey, it’s okay. It’s probably just the water breaking. Don’t feel embarrassed. We’ll get you into a gown and get you all cleaned up.”

She rolled me into a room in the labor and delivery unit, and just the sight of the padded blue footrests at the foot of the hospital bed made me nervous. I had discussed my birth plan with the hospital a couple of months ago. They understood that I wanted to try for a vaginal birth despite the fact I’d had a cesarean section with Junior. I knew there was a good possibility I would need another C-section. And now, as I stared at the padded stirrups while another contraction rocked me, I was beginning to wonder if perhaps my birth plan was a bit ambitious.

Jack slipped into the room after the nurse had helped me out of my clothes and into a gown, and was now wiping away the amniotic fluid, which had dampened the backs of my legs. “Doc and midwife are on their way,” he declared. “Is everything okay in here?”

“This is Nurse Jenny,” I said, breathless from the last contraction.

Jack nodded at her. “Is everything okay?” he asked her.

She smiled as she gently pulled the back of my gown closed without tying it. “Everything’s looking good,” she said, pressing a button to lower the bed for me to get in. “You can lie down now. Doctor will be here soon. I’ll be back to hook you up to the heart rate monitor. Nurse Helen will be in to check your cervix. If you need to use the restroom before we get you hooked up, you should do that now. Restroom’s over there,” she said, pointing to a door in the corner of the room. “Please be careful as your feet might still be a little damp from the fluid. If you need help in there, just press the button and someone will come.”

My midwife, Maisie Ocampo, arrived about twenty minutes later. Dr. Eastman arrived almost an hour later, when my contractions were just two and a half minutes apart and I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, worrying that he wouldn’t get there in time to deliver the baby. Luckily, he arrived in time and, after a brief examination, conveyed the news that I would likely be delivering the baby vaginally in less than two hours.

One hour and thirty-seven minutes later, at precisely 3:17 a.m., after pushing for what felt like an eternity but was actually only twenty-four minutes, I gave birth to a seven-pound-fourteen-ounce healthy baby girl. As Dr. Eastman stuck me with multiple doses of local anesthetic so he could stitch up my torn flesh, Maisie and Nurse Helen cleaned up my daughter, bundled her in a hospital issue receiving blanket, and placed her gently on my bosom.

Jack took video of me as I cradled her in the crook of my arm and tugged open the blanket to expose her puffy face. Unlike Junior, she had Jack’s dark hair, and the daintiest fingers I’d ever seen. I didn’t get to hold Junior right after he was born, so my initial maternal instinct was fear.

Was I holding her right? Should I sit up more? Was she hungry? Should I try to get her to latch onto my breast right away?

But almost as soon as this thought entered my mind, she pursed her lips and the instinct kicked in. I cradled her carefully in my left arm as I pulled my gown down to expose my breast. With a bit of encouragement, as tears flowed freely down my cheeks, she latched on for her first meal.

“Does she have a name?” Maisie asked as she watched us, her round face glowing with pride.

I looked to Jack, not surprised to find tears in his eyes as he stroked the soft hair on the top of her head. “Her name is Rose.”

“Rose Beth,” Jack corrected me with a smile as he placed a gentle kiss on my bare shoulder, then he reached into his pocket and came out with a ring in the palm of his hand. “Happy anniversary, pixie.”

It wasn’t the engagement ring I thought I’d lost. My engagement ring was a simple titanium band with a two-carat princess-cut diamond. This looked like the same band, but the setting was changed to accommodate a diamond twice the size, with two round morganite jewels on either side.

“That’s you, and those are Junior and Rose,” Jack said, pointing at the smaller pink jewels. “I was thinking we could take a trip to London with Barry and Drea and the kids, meet their family and renew our vows there. What do you say? Will you marry me… again?”

I nodded as my entire body trembled with joy. He chuckled as he helped me shift the baby’s weight a little so he could slide the ring onto my left ring finger. Maisie and the nurses clapped as Dr. Eastman, with his hands still occupied, could be heard cheering through the mask covering his nose and mouth.

Jack kissed my knuckles. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

After giving birth, I got some much-needed sleep in my new room in the Women and Newborn Care Unit. Jack got a couple of hours sleep on the recliner in the room, then he headed home to shower. He was back at the hospital in time to have breakfast with me. He stayed with Rose and me the whole day and night, insisting it was the most comfortable recliner he’d ever slept in.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I entered the master bedroom and found the bassinet next to the bed. Jack didn’t have much time to get everything ready for us when he came home yesterday, so Drea was all too happy to walk five-hundred feet from her house to ours and do it for him. Rose and I were discharged thirty-two hours after I gave birth on the condition that I would bring Rose in to see Dr. Eastman in two days.

I reluctantly set her down in the bassinet, tucking the corner of the pink blanket snugly beneath her to keep it from unraveling. “I got you something for our anniversary, but I wasn’t able to give it to you yesterday,” I said to Jack as he set my weekender bag on the floor. “I’ll go get it. Just stay here.”

I walked through the master bathroom and into the walk-in closet. Opening one of the drawers where I kept my undergarments, I lifted a stack of panties and carefully pulled out Jack’s gift from underneath. I hid it behind my back as I made my way to the bedroom again.

He grinned as I approached with my hands hidden. “It better not be an engagement ring.”

“Happy anniversary,” I said, smiling as I presented him with a framed black-and-white photograph of himself.

It was a picture taken by Maisie almost three and a half years ago. In the photo, Jack was crying as he held Junior for the first time in the surgical suite, while I was still under anesthesia.

Jack stared at the photo for a long time, and I was fairly certain I could read his anguished thoughts. Shaking his head, he slowly set the frame down on my nightstand and pulled me into his arms. He kissed the top of my head, and without speaking, said every word I needed to hear.