Pushing my youngest on the swing then stepping back, I dialed my sister’s telephone number and stared up to the sky. Prayer welled up inside of me and the hope of a blessing upon this call was summoned silently. I was scared to tell her, not that she would begrudge me my news, not that she would be angry; I was scared to say what I was because of what she wanted to be. It was just awkward: I was two months pregnant and she was not.
When she answered her breathless hello, I burst into tears.
“What?” she was worried.
I told her in words that cracked apart that I was pregnant—but my tears were not tethered to this statement and what spilled out of my heart was a sudden revelation that I was hard pressed to say aloud because it seemed more miracle than reality, given her history, her infertility, her age.