My wife, Holly, is starting to appear pregnant. She enjoys being pregnant. And she enjoys breastfeeding. She breastfed our son, Avery, for twenty-seven months, and only stopped because her doctor suggested that it might have contributed to the miscarriages. She cried for a few days after hearing that something she was doing for Avery had ended life. I told her that the doctor didn’t know what he was talking about. But he probably did.

Avery calls Holly’s breasts her “owies”. When the three of us shared a bed, he would sleep in the middle, sometimes upside down, sometimes horizontal. He rolled out of bed fourteen times in two years. Each time he rolled out of bed, I’d tell Holly that I was writing the event down in my divorce book. Even then, before D, divorce was something Holly and I discussed. An eventuality, not a possibility,

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