Champagne Toast To My Dead Babies
The night I came home from the hospital after my ninth miscarriage was the night of the Thorne family foundation's annual charity gala.
My husband, Vincent Thorne, found me on the terrace.
In front of me, three champagne flutes stood empty.
His gray-blue eyes, usually so calm and self-possessed, were bloodshot, and his voice was rough. "Cora, the doctor warned you. Your uterine wall is paper-thin. You can't drink another drop."
I ignored him.
Slowly, deliberately, I took three more glasses and filled them to the brim.
I pushed one toward him.
The second, I slid in front of his adopted daughter, Kathleen Vance, who stood behind him looking angelic in a white, custom-designed gown.
The last glass, I lifted, watching Vincent through the shimmering liquid. I smiled.
There was no warmth in my smile, only the chilling certainty of an ending.
"Come."
"Let's raise a glass to my nine children who were never born."