In time our lives in the city took shape. I found steady work, we learned how to take a crosstown bus, and everyone in our apartment building became accustomed to loud singing. And amid all this living we decided we couldn’t put off life any longer. No more compromise for a career, no more waiting for the perfect moment or the right amount of money in the bank; after years of avoiding it, we got pregnant. On a spring day with new growth everywhere, we shared the news with Julie’s parents, showing an ultrasound picture of a blurry blob. We celebrated the excitement of a fresh chapter, our bond deepening at the prospect of a growing family and new roots. We watched, nervous and hopeful, as her belly grew. Held between her hips was so much promise, opportunity, excitement, and focus; something entirely spawned of our two lives and love. Well into the pregnancy she was away singing, and there were complications that were thought to have been resolved. But weeks later there was another round of complications, and with the knowledge that there was no hope for a positive outcome, she gave birth to our stillborn son, Huck Rainey. Some losses are anticipated; the order of events fits into the course of a life. In those times sadness is framed by expectation or circumstance, and one’s inner voice offers comfort with “She lived a full life,” or, in the case of Oma, even gratitude that she died at home in her rocking chair at the close of a day well into her eighth decade. If we could all be so lucky. The loss of a child is a slap wake-up, impossible to anticipate. Among the many sadnesses, the worst for me lay in the fact that I would never know who he would be, how he would grow and talk, run, or jump. He would not be my companion. I would never hold him longer than that single morning in a hospital room overlooking Manhattan and its bustle. All the potential was gone, with no opportunity or option to replace the loss or rise to the challenge of new experiences. And for all the tears I shed, Julie’s were double. She had carried him for so long, feeling his fluttering movements, feeding him with her food and breath, the bond strengthening hour by hour, day by day. There is no recovering the subtraction of loss, a removal, a lessening.

The days and weeks following were a fog. What does one do with a layette knit by Mama and Oma for a child who won’t be coming? Loss and grief alienate; internal dialogues chatter of pain or joy, yet remain unheard by the outside world. Six weeks after our loss, all of Manhattan, the boroughs, the state, and our country were brought to the same shattered place as planes hit the southern end of our island home and points beyond and all went upside down. Emergency vehicles streamed and screamed southbound for days, returning northward mute—there was no rescue, only recovery. The small Catholic church in our neighborhood lost dozens of members; our upstairs neighbor lost her son, a firefighter; and we had lost Huck. We were all brought together, living those difficult days on the same page, full of sad stories.

And yet the city never sleeps. Rhythms return and trains run, seasons arrive, then pass. Leaves of last year hold on like scars as fresh grass stretches out, in and among them. A week before the one-year anniversary of 9/11 we had a baby girl, Clementine. The pregnancy was pins and needles, extra checks, and fretful, but she came, healthy, in a shower of tears—there was never a more joyful arrival. In that moment much of my grief over Huck was forever buttoned; if we hadn’t lost him we would never have had her. Somehow it felt like a trade, and because I was so grateful I could cry for him no more, never again.

It’s OK to laugh at young parents; we are asking for it. As I think of the things we did for our first and juxtapose it with the treatment our third has received . . . it’s appropriate to chuckle. With the first we set records for attentiveness, catering to every micro-need. Is that organic, is it natural, is it BPA-free? And what soap did you use to wash those bananas (before peeling them)? And on and on. But then, things slip with the second child. An exception here, an allowance for junk food there . . . and, if a third child arrives well, we’re over the cliff now. “I’m hungry” can be fixed at a gas station. But before things relaxed we made quite a few delicious muffins for our baby girl—something to feed her amid spoon-fed meals of organic baby food.