The Miscarriage and the Morning

After my third miscarriage I stopped believing in anything. I was thirty-eight, exhausted by grief, and I told God directly that I was done with him. I meant it. For eight months I lived in a flat gray world. Then one morning — I cannot point to anything that caused it — I woke up and the gray was gone. Not slowly, not gradually. Gone. I felt loved. Specifically, personally loved. That morning I found out I was pregnant again. My daughter is four years old. She was born healthy. I am not the same person who said I was done. I am someone who knows that being found is not always loud.