Annie and Brett had done the retrieval and fertilization on their own. It seemed awkward to intrude, like it was the equivalent of watching them have sex in some distorted way. The days after were agonizingly slow. The two of us made a point of spending more time together, meeting daily for lunch, but today, the four of us were making the call to find out how many embryos we had to transfer. We all sat anxiously waiting for each other to finish eating, but no one touched their food, and we finally gave in to the call. I tried to concentrate on what the embryologist was telling us, but all I heard was the magic number.
Three.
That one little word, a simple number-in nine months, Annie and Brett would have a child, and I would have given back to the world what I'd taken. We'd prayed for three; we got three. The signs all pointed toward success.