"People were always getting ready for tomorrow. I didn't believe in that."
Tomorrow is the due date.
Tomorrow, my mother will board a plane and fly halfway across the country. For ten days, she won't be the voice on a long distance call or the sender of an email full of recipes. She'll be the excited smile moving past the windows, passengers, and security guards. She'll be the hugs I remember growing up with and the smell of something baking in the kitchen. She'll be the traces of family I see in Millie's small face already.
Tomorrow will be another day of waiting. Of planning and checking the suitcase. Of feeling these kicks against my round belly and wondering who they belong to and when we'll meet.
Tomorrow will likely come and go without another new life just yet. But there is still tonight.
Tonight is life ongoing. Tonight is the cracked door that sends light spilling onto the carpet in Millie's room. Tonight is a moment of putting my head next to hers on the pillow, resting my hand on her curled up form that rises and falls with little sighs, and remembering the nights three years ago when I waited for her. Tonight is a few deep inhaled breaths of life now and life before.
And the hours we have now are still ones of expectation. But they are also ones of the sweetest, fleeting stillness and the fullest hope.