Yesterday was our 30th anniversary, and like it always does, it pulled us back to the beginning…
To the wedding day.
To the promises.
To all the versions of us that didn’t know what was coming yet…
We always talked about having kids before we were even married.
Two for sure.
Maybe three if things went well.
The first would be the test.
The second, we’d be ready for.
God heard that plan… and decided to skip a step.
At the first ultrasound, the doctor paused.
“I think I hear two heartbeats.”
Not certain. Not yet.
But enough to change everything.
The next visit confirmed it.
Two.
Just like that, our “we’ll figure it out” plan turned into something a lot bigger than we had imagined…
And for a while, we handled it the way you do.
With excitement.
With jokes.
With just enough denial to keep moving forward…
Until the complications started showing up.
The kind they warn you about early…
but hope never actually happens.
By the last trimester, Laura was in and out of the hospital.
Muscle relaxants to stop labor.
Constant monitoring.
Trying to hold off the inevitable just long enough…
Then it got worse.
She contracted Enterobacter cloacae.
Not just “you don’t feel great” sick.
The kind of infection that makes doctors serious.
The kind that doesn’t just affect her… but everything.
Two weeks in the hospital.
A port line running straight to her heart.
Heavy antibiotics.
A quiet understanding that things could go sideways fast…
And right in the middle of all of it—
Our anniversary.
She wasn’t home.
I was trying to hold things together with Peyton.
Trying to act like everything was normal…
when nothing felt normal at all…
I didn’t want her to spend that night alone.
So I found a sitter.
And I brought the night to her.
No candles allowed.
Apparently oxygen and open flames don’t mix well in a hospital setting…
something the staff was very clear about.
So I improvised.
A small red Maglite.
Lens cap flipped.
Standing upright.
A tiny beam of light pretending to be a candle…
I brought flowers.
And I brought dinner from The India Oven.
The same place where I had once handed Noah—the maître d’—her engagement ring before proposing…
On Valentine’s Day.
After telling her for years I would never propose on a holiday…
He didn’t hesitate then.
And he didn’t hesitate now.
He made sure everything was perfect.
Samosas.
Shrimp tandoori.
Lamb vindaloo.
Naan.
Chutney.
The whole thing.
So there we were…
Sitting across from each other in a hospital room.
A flashlight glowing between us like it was doing something important…
Talking.
Eating.
Pretending, just for a little while, that everything was okay…
A week later, she came home.
Still connected to antibiotics.
Still not out of danger.
But closer.
Three weeks after that—
Two girls.
One arrived the usual way.
The other came into the world sunny-side up…
on her own terms from the very beginning.
Six and a half pounds each.
A little early.
But safe.
It was one of the scariest stretches of our lives.
The kind where you don’t know how it’s going to end…
so you just keep showing up and hope that’s enough…
Somehow, it was.
Thirty years later…
Three daughters.
All grown.
All finding their own way.
And that tiny flashlight—
still one of the brightest memories we have.
If this resonated with you, you’re not alone.
