“What a brood! You had three little youngings.

After heartache, your family flourished.

Sounds like you two were all-in a-plunging.

I know with love your kids’ youths were nourished!”

In those years we were both mid-late thirty

so we were not exactly spring chickens.

Our elbows up, changing diapers dirty,

baby hygiene where sight and smell sicken.

Still, “How many children?” A choice confronts.

In our case, stop at three or go for more?

Last opportunity? Life goes round once.

“What the hell,” we decided. “Why not four!”

Sharing our news we oft got a strange rise.

“Congratulations! … Was this a surprise?”

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Coming Next: Stop me! (31/36) on July 31

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If you think catastrophe lies ahead,

Pause. Think. And, perhaps, take no action.

Observe. For as events evolve instead,

hazard may clear to your satisfaction.

While birthing abroad might give a wife fits,

turns out she didn’t have to be so bold.

By the time I got my working permits,

child two was already three plus months old.

Arriving, we found our fears unfounded.

Small boys have many trips to physicians.

Learned modern medical care abounded

for fevers, bruises, unplanned admissions.

Since with the hospitals we were quite pleased,

child three, a daughter (!), was born overseas.

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If ever I asked her, “Honey, guess what?”
“You got a raise?” she’d ask with mock demure.
If I said, “No,” her spirit would go flat.
“Dear God, no. You got another transfer.”

“You realize I’m pregnant with number two.
You want me to move to ’nother city?
I did it twice, give the devil her due.
Divorce I’m thinking would be a pity.”

Nothing I could say would her fear allay.
Out of my mouth the truth was hurled.
“A city a dozen time zones away,
tropical country, other side of the world…”

“Let me get this straight. Don’t dodge. Say bluntly.
You want me to birth in a third-world country!”

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An inquiry from wrought-iron balcony

to strolling woman on Mardi Gras Day,

“When are you due?” Then gasped the gallery,

“Serious?” when she replied, “Yesterday!”

Nothing happened. Two days later, Doctor advised

a verdict that shouldn’t have completely surprised,

“Let’s birth this baby. The ultrasound shows

this kiddo measures four point two kilos.”

“Can’t be tomorrow. Nursery’s not painted.

Besides, as you said, I’m not dilated!”

Doc said, “Still, that baby shouldn’t simmer.”

We went out, had our last “alone” dinner.

Can time heal a soul, yet completely not?

Can joy co-exist while sorr’w not forgot?

© 2026 I. B. Vonnet. All rights reserved.

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“So tell me now. You two, next, what happened?”

At first it was awful. We were broken.

No overstatement. Our souls were flattened.

For us no need for anything spoken.

It was not like we were in denial.

We struggled to get through only one day,

A second, then a week. What a trial …

We could not assuage our total dismay.

Slowly we numbed through months of distractions.

We could not succumb to Fate’s ridicule.

We trundled through life’s maintenance actions.

And she had the guts to restart grad school.

What to do? We together as lovers

had to put one foot front of the other.

© 2026 I. B. Vonnet. All rights reserved.

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I didn’t mean … Sorry. I will leave now.

“Sir, I thought your plane was not for a while?

No. Sit. I want you to, if you allow,

relay how you both endured this trial.

Because when I look down at your left hand,

love has banded it with a golden ring.

I assume your marriage has spanned

these pains by tapping an inner wellspring

of strength. You are still married to her, yes?

Of course. It’s why you gush the way you do.

Earning through scars is why you can express

the feelings of a husband born anew.

I get impression, while today you spout

not oft is your true persona let out.”

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“I am so sorry . . . ”

. . .

. . .

. . .

Thanks . . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

A minute please. I’ve not much more to say . . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

I think I’ll order me a Chardonnay . . .

. . .

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Oh, why, my God, did you not hear her plea?
Did she create a failed bargain like Faust?
What had she accomplished, nearing thirty?
Is it enough to love but a spouse?

“Go to college. Excel! Start a career.
At first defer marriage and family.
Be self-sufficient through your fruitful years.
And when men fail you, you will have Plan B.”

Yet she forgone all that and married me,
put on hold pursuit of her vocation,
twice uprooted from friends and family,
now two babies lost in gestation.

When, after all, her life’s dreams did elude…
She never retreated to solitude.

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“Must geography create adversity?

Can I wrap on a persona, carefree?

Doesn’t each city have a university?

So enroll and pursue my Ed degree!”

Plus, she also endured a hormone shot,

Taking an intervention to conceive.

We were praying all wouldn’t be for naught…

As our third decades drew nigh, did receive…

Joyous news! In fact, a double blessing!

She was glowing, beaming, freed from her cross.

Finally, our lives were coalescing!

…Then…one evening…devastation…loss.

To this day, though less frequent to bereave…

We long…our unborn twins…named Adam, Eve.

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My early career started to flourish.

In one factory I shut down some kit.

A crew repiped the flow in a dervish.

Production soared! Not what you’d intuit.

Next rust bucket and nothing was clearer,

“Make a profit or license is repealed.”

Found old drawing when held to a mirror

Unlocked recipe that increased its yield.

But did I then really appreciate

success was not all from my back breaking?

Because her running our home was innate,

the special sauce of our money making.

While not starting out a complete zero,

my loving wife forged bread-winning hero.

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Has life landed you into a party

when you arrive in Mardi Gras city?

You better be a being that’s hardy;

below the surface life can be gritty.

She supported my work relocation,

for her, not a minimal adjustment.

Pausing, restarting her own vocation,

to God she offered total entrustment.

She shared a glimpse of her soul, “I plant roots.

Wherever I am I plant my roots deep.

I do not adjust well to life’s reboots.

It is from my people that my heart reaps.”

I asked, and she replied somewhat frailly,

“Here six months. I no longer cry daily.”

© 2026 I. B. Vonnet. All rights reserved.

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She could have said, “I’m not moving away.

Ain’t no way. I’m not that type of biddy!

Why on my dreams should I issue a stay

for your new job in another city?”

God bless her, she didn’t say that of course.

And although she was sad, she did not grouse,

or get mad, nor even threaten divorce.

Rather she heartened up and packed the house.

My how she loves antique-y furniture.

What she collected over those three years!

Still I could sense a sorrowful demure …

Incompleteness … emptiness … suppressed tears.

From the ev’ning I took her to the prom

all she ever dreamed was to be a mom.

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What upended that decision by her?

Offhanded my associate conferred,

“Congrats on moving on, your new transfer!”

What? Relocation? Was the first I’d heard!

“Boss! A rumor I cannot let fester,

‘less marital and financial fission.

Tomorrow for her grad school semester

my wife will be paying full tuition!”

A summons a bit later, Kafkaesque,

“Sorry for wait. Please come down and see me.”

Opening a folder splayed on his desk

were papers for move to a new city.

With her positive action to enroll

over life she thought she’d taken control.

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In all other ways our life was quite good.

Got away for an island vacation.

Her beach meditation? “Control what I could.

Why wait? Why not that other vocation?

Why stay stuck, accept work as a bee-drone,

hear adult-children venting frustration?

I’ll quit HR at the savings and loan,

pursue my Masters in Education!”

Molding young children infused her being,

one way or another she’d enjoy it.

One’s agency is a powerful thing,

she empowered herself to employ it.

Still, in her quiet times, deep down inside,

I could tell an intense pain did reside.

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What destiny triggers anguish so great,

a legacy that haunts one to the tomb?

It left her heart hollowed, weeping at fate

so yearning for pregnancy in her womb.

“Oh your poor wife! For her that must have stung.

We all have girlfriends who also struggle.

Ready to be a mom, no longer young.

They long for a child that they can cuddle.”

Have life strategy. Sequence in order.

The elixir to having young life aced!

What said that philosopher-marauder?

“All have a plan until punched in the face.”

But I can’t end here, as all was not woe.

For my wife’s journey has a bit to go.

© 2026 I. B. Vonnet. All rights reserved.

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Longing to raise children, a girl, a boy,

she offered a vocation of caring.

Hearing others’ happy news she’d force joy

yet cry wondering why she was barren.

As a vibrant woman in her twenties

you would think she was a fertile Myrtle.

She felt lone anguish without progenies,

her deprived, not blessed, to be maternal.

Put under for a procedure by scope,

a specialist examined internal.

She clung on with prayers and eternal hope

after all was found medically normal.

“Aren’t one’s babies just supposed to be?

Others get pregnant, and yet why not me?”

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Welcome! This is the fifteenth of thirty-six in the series “Vonnets in an Airport Lounge.” Please join us for 14 lines every Friday for 36 weeks.

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Modern eyes might think that she gave up all,

marriage over career she did prefer.

Exploring life together was her call,

not a bargain with the devil for her.

She found another job, banking HR,

nested her touches on our apartment.

For transportation she bought a new car,

and joined our church choir for fulfillment.

As newlywed months became blissful years,

she could not help being a bit chagrined.

A nagging question caused occasional tears:

for us when would family life begin?

She conferred with medical attendant,

“I’m young-wed wife! Why am I not pregnant?”

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Married. Honeymoon. Then moved cross country.

She left behind Mom to start new chapter.

I picked the apartment she would soon see.

Yet would our marriage bring her the rapture?

Starting anew, she looked for employment

Before contending with sparse furniture

and crafting fun newlywed enjoyment.

About clueless husband, she was mature.

We spent time with friends and were church-going

and once even tried to teach her tennis.

Her patience pow’red through my clumsy showing.

As her sport coach she thought me a menace.

Being Catholic she didn’t resist,

raised Presbyterian then Methodist.

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Being generous I was a rough gem.

Out socially I was left in the lurch.

Then women didn’t rate me half of “ten.”

I wasn’t bad. At least I went to church.

God knows, still for some reason she loved me.

Good thing she did not give up on “we”.

I finally had clarity to see

I had to act if we ever to be.

It wasn’t a normal courtship per se.

When betrothed we saw each other but twice.

So six months later on our special day

Since engagement we had only joined thrice.

We chose. We acted. Best way to do it?

In coming years we worked our way through it.

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Three years on. I’m twenty five. It is spring

and out of the blue she gave me a ring.

“Perhaps … was wondering … Can I visit you?”

Blink clarity! “Idiot! No answer you’ll rue!

If I say ‘No’ I may lose her.

But I don’t want to lose her.

But you are not dating her.

Then you will lose her.

I don’t want to lose her.

Then I better marry her.

Buy time! Not my normal, ‘No visit now.’

I have to reorder my life somehow…”

If I said “No” that would have brought sorrow.

I improvised. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

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