Boundless

 Eight weeks after Anthony’s birth, my body bloomed again. A third pregnancy. We spent most days in a haze of skin, sighs, and slow mornings that bled into afternoons. Work faded into the background. We loved more, laughed harder. We moved slower. But the joy was fleeting.

Six weeks in, I tripped.

It should have been nothing—a casual afternoon stroll through the garden, barefoot, the twins laughing in the distance, Matthew on a call nearby. But I didn’t see the tree root. My foot caught it hard, and the momentum threw me forward violently. I couldn’t catch myself in time. My body hit the stone path with a thud that echoed in my ears. My knees scraped open, my belly knocked against the cold ground, and pain shot up my spine.

Matthew’s voice was the first thing I registered, sharp and terrified. Then his hands were on me, cradling my body, begging me to talk to him, to open my eyes, to breathe.

The bleeding started an hour later.

By nightfall, we knew.

The miscarriage was quiet but brutal. Matthew didn’t let go of me for hours, and I don’t think I let go of him for days. He held our newborn son while the twins played at our feet and whispered, “She gave us everything. Everything,” as if he was speaking to God.

We left Italy soon after, hearts cracked open but arms full. The villa was too quiet without the promise of another heartbeat inside me. Back home, our life reassembled gently—our three boys, the lull of a familiar bed, the soft strength of our routine.

And then, a month later, we tried again daily. We fucked for hours on end. He mounted me roughly and fucked me hard, forcing me to take his massive dick and his cum. I needed him like this. I needed my gentle husband to be rough.

Because we knew what we wanted. More of us. More of the life we built. More little hands, more laughter, more fullness. I craved it—his body, his cum, his whispered prayers against my spine as he fucked me in the middle of the night with reverence and heat.

And just like that, I was pregnant again.