I intended to keep it forever. It hung in the closet of our guest bedroom, encased in a heavy, opaque garment bag, like a sleeping beauty waiting for a future daughter or a sentimental anniversary.

My husband, Adam, understood its weight. He treated it with the same reverence he showed me. We had been married for just over a year, navigating the sweet, steady waters of early matrimony in our suburban home. It was a peaceful life, occasionally punctuated by the whirlwind presence of his younger sister, Becca.