Must be Jean, she thought. Tom and Jean were still living with her folks, so she only lived a few blocks away. She and Jean had become close over the past year. Michele had invited her over for a cup of coffee.
Well, for coffee and to talk.
Michele opened the door. âHi, Jean. The kids arenât with you?â
Jean stepped through the doorway and gave Michele a hug. âNo, Mom is watching them. When you said Allan had gone down for a nap, I knew that wouldnât last long if I brought the kids. I canât stay long. Maybe just long enough for one cup. Your parents asked us to eat dinner with them tonight.â
They walked through the hallway and into the kitchen. âYou guys eat together quite a bit, donât you?â
âWe do, but your mom hinted that tonight was going to be very special. Some kind of surprise.â
Michele fixed their coffee. âWell, thanks for coming on such short notice.â
âDonât need to thank me. I love coming here, especially without the kids. Can we sit outside on the patio? Thereâs a beautiful breeze blowing through.â
âSure, I was thinking the same thing.â
As they carried their coffee past the stairway, Jean said, âProbably better to meet out there too, so we donât wake Allan up. Especially if you wind up saying something funny. You know how ridiculously loud my laugh can be.â
âI donât think even your laugh would make any difference right now. A wrecking ball could hit this place and heâd still stay asleep. I also donât think thereâs much chance of me making you laugh in this conversation.â She opened the patio door.
âUh-oh,â Jean said.
âItâs not that bad. Itâs just not that funny, either.â She walked around the table and sat in the shade.
âDid something happen on Allanâs trip? Because other than how lonely you normally get when heâs gone, you seemed fine on Sunday.â Jean sat down next to her.
âI donât know,â Michele said. âItâs probably just me being moody. This whole thing about not getting pregnant.â
âSo I guess that was a false alarm last week when you were a few days late?â
âAs always.â
Jean reached her hand across the glass table and patted Micheleâs forearm. âIâm sorry. One of these times it wonât be.â
âI guess,â Michele said. âYouâd think Iâd stop getting my hopes up so easily after a year.â
âGood luck finding that switch.â
âWhat switch?â
âThe hope switch. Iâve never known anyone who could turn that off and on. I think youâre being too hard on yourself. This is a big deal. And youâre not alone, Michele. I was reading in a womenâs magazine the other day. One in eight couples deal with infertility. One in eight. Thatâs a lot of people. Millions.â
Michele sipped her coffee. âDoesnât feel like millions. Doesnât feel like anybody knows what it feels like. No one ever talks about it, even at church. Thereâs so many kids, and so many moms. So many strollers. Seems like thatâs all we ever talk about: the childrenâs ministry, what to do with all the kids for this event or that event. The pastorâs wife keeps dragging me in deeper, because Iâm a schoolteacher. Guess Iâm supposed to be great with kids. Even yesterday, she called saying she wanted to meet with me soon to help her evaluate some new childrenâs program.â
âWow,â Jean said.
âWhat?â
âYou really are in a pit.â
âNo, Iâm not. Itâs justââ
âYeah, you really are.â
Michele knew she was right.
âAll this time, I thought you liked children,â Jean said.
âI do . . . mostly. Itâs just . . .â She didnât know what to say, what she was really feeling. She