How long had I wanted Cameron to hold me that way, to fall to his knees and kiss the scars left by our children? How long had I silently begged him to talk about it, to acknowledge it, to let me know it was real? With Cameron, it was as if those months, that day, those roughly two-hundred-and-sixteen hours, as if none of it had happened at all. He was able to pack away the nursery — out of sight, out of mind — while I lived with the scars they left behind.
