After years of trying, I finally became pregnant with twin girls. Days before my scheduled C-section, my husband left for a beach vacation because he wanted “one last break before fatherhood.” When he returned home, the first person he saw was the one man he’d sworn he’d never become.
People think fatherhood begins the day you hold your baby.
My husband believed that too.
I learned the hard way that it begins much earlier.
My name is Katie, and after four failed fertility treatments, two miscarriages, and more negative pregnancy tests than I can count, I finally heard the words I’d almost given up hoping for.
I finally heard the words I’d almost given up hoping for.
“Congratulations, Katie.” Then my doctor smiled. “And there’s another heartbeat.”
Two little girls.
My husband, Trevor, cried harder than I did.
He kissed my forehead and laughed through his tears.
“We’re going to have so much fun, Mama Bear,” he said with a grin.
I believed him.
“And there’s another heartbeat.”
He painted the nursery, assembled two cribs, and proudly told everyone he was going to be “the coolest dad ever.”
But as my pregnancy progressed, I noticed something strange.
Whenever Trevor talked about becoming a father, he spoke about it as if it lived in the future.
“Once the babies are here…”
“When everything gets crazy…”
I never corrected him.
I assumed it was just part of him adjusting to becoming a father.
I never corrected him.
