She lost the love of her life, but not the life of her love, and every step she takes toward that second baby is proof that hope can be heavy, and still be carried. Eight hundred fifty-three days after her husband died without warning, Sarah is still doing the brave everyday work of hoping. She was a young widow who wanted one more child with the man she loved, and she is praying that the science that once felt out of reach will open that door again. Back in February 2020, her husband, Scott, had a heart attack while teaching. Sarah was between flights during their second round of IVF when the call came.
She rushed home to Oklahoma with her mother by her side, only to face the choice no partner ever expects. Scott never woke up. At forty-one, he was gone. The months that followed were heavy and gray. Sarah could not imagine what joy might look like anymore. But two frozen embryos were waiting in a clinic in Barbados, the last pieces of the dream she and Scott had fought for. Six months after the funeral, she went back alone, masked and anxious in the middle of a pandemic, whispering prayers through every checkpoint and appointment.
The transfer worked. Her son, Hayes, arrived in May 2021, a bright, breathing reminder that love can leave footprints, even when someone can’t. Motherhood lifted her in ways she didn’t know she needed. Hayes looks so much like Scott that some days it soothes and others sting. Together, they are learning how to be a family of two. She is learning how to be both the steady and the soft place and raise their child in a way that would make Scott clap and laugh and say, “That’s our boy.”’
Nights bring the quiet ache, imagining breakfasts in bed on Mother’s Day, the nap Scott would have insisted she take on her birthday, the Father’s Day card Hayes would have scribbled on. The hardest part is missing the thing they never got to do together: parent side by side. She grieves the father-son moments that never got to happen and keeps building the life they planned anyway. Their world is a small farm in rural Oklahoma, with rescue animals and endless sky. Hayes beams at the horses, giggles at the donkey’s bray, drops snacks for the dog, and toddles after an indoor pig as if it’s normal to have one padding through the house.
He naps best on the porch swing. She and Scott chose this simple life together, and keeping it going as a single mom and full-time teacher is no small task. But it is also her anchor. When the days feel crowded with chores and appointments, she trusts a larger story is being written, and Scott’s love threads through it in quiet ways. Now, more than two years after losing him, Sarah is taking the next step. As soon as Hayes turned one, she began preparing for another embryo transfer. This second embryo, created just a week before Scott died, feels like a last chance at the family they pictured.
She starts injections, packs for Barbados, and carries the weight of what this means: her final opportunity to be pregnant, her final tie to having a biological child with Scott. Infertility was a mountain they climbed together; looking back, the path was painful, but it led to Hayes. The fact that she has even one more chance, years after Scott’s death, feels like a gift made possible by skilled doctors and stubborn hope.
She doesn’t pretend to know the rest of her life. She prays for a future where she might love again, with someone kind who will walk beside her and help raise her child or children. She prays that Hayes will always understand how fiercely wanted he is, how hard his parents worked for him, how his dad prayed for him.
She prays that the embryo waiting in Barbados will take root and grow strong. She prays for guidance in the noisy hours of single motherhood and for the right people to appear when she needs them. Along the way, Sarah has found comfort in telling the truth, grieving and faithing, having doctor visits and diapers, and hearing from others living through their own losses and longings. Sharing has made the road feel less lonely. She knows some days will still buckle her knees, and others will spin with giggles on a porch swing. She knows both can be real at once.
