I couldn’t tell you when it went absent without leave but one day I noticed it was gone. The last shred of possibility slipped out the door. You adjust. The sadness becomes mortar for a wall just high enough to keep the dream from getting in finding its old place where it fit in so well until it didn’t. We resigned ourselves to a good enough life. But then—years later, mind you— he came home from Jerusalem out of breath and out of words to explain himself. He kept making the same frantic motions desperate for me to understand. When he finally settled down we played a guessing game: he acted out a story that began with routine but ended with surprise. I laugh when I think of his exaggerated gestures his repeated look of goofy astonishment his tears of frustration before I blurted the unthinkable and the joy knocked us onto the floor in a tangle. It’s been quiet around here for months except when we smile at one another and a gust of hope stirs, rearranges our secret. One day it blew down the last remnant of resignation. I can tell you the exact moment because it was the day I felt a tiny breeze fluttering in my womb.