baby nestled in the arms of a woman
with white hair tied back in a bun. His
head rested on her shoulder, and on
his backside was the same red crab I’d
seen just eight days before. My breath
caught.
I turned to John and whispered,
“That’s the outfit I was telling you
about.”
He cocked his eyebrows. Through-
out the service, I was transfixed by the
infant with fine blond hair sticking
straight up from his head. I longed tohold him. I tried to distract myself by
looking at the bright horizon over the
snowy mountains.
At the end of the service, the rever-
end stood to make announcements.
The white-haired woman walked up
beside him, holding the infant.
“Most of you know this woman, and
many of you know her daughter’s situ-
ation,” he said. “But what you may not
know is that this baby needs a home,
and he needs it by Thursday.”
I was afraid to make a sound.
The reverend continued, “If you or
anyone you know is thinking about
adoption, please see us after the
service.”
I felt a hand on my lap and looked
at John. He had tears in his eyes too.sewed bedding and curtains for her
son’s nursery. Now the only thing she
needed was a changing table, which
was what we had come to buy.
As we headed to the furniture sec-
tion, a gray-and-white striped onesie
caught my eye. The red crab sewn on
the backside smiled with bright eyes,
suggesting it had a secret. Maybe it trig-
gered memories from my childhood:
digging for crabs in the Gulf of Mexi-
co’s sands, eating them on the docks in
Baltimore with my family, pretending
I was Ariel from The Little Mermaid. If
things were different, that crab onesie
would have made me laugh.
Instead I said, “If I ever have a son,
I’d want him to have that.”
Colleen stopped, grasping my wrist
so I would stop too. “Sarah, you have
to get it,” she said.
I shook my head no. I didn’t want a
reminder of what I couldn’t have. Of
course, my husband, John, and I had
talked about adoption. But I worried
that the process would only lead to
more rejection.
That night, I told John about the
outfit. “Maybe you should’ve gotten
it,” he said, pulling me close.
I told him no.
The next Sunday, John and I went
to church for the second time in more
than a decade. In a city where people
tend to come and go, we ached for
connection and figured that this
church, which had a reputation for
being accepting, might offer that.
As we walked in, I noticed a tiny
“IF I EVER HAVE A SON,
I’D WANT HIM TO
HAVE THAT ONESIE.”rd.com 47