Justine was ashamed of her stomach, but only when it was unearthed from dress and underthings. When it was covered in pretty fabrics, like her white cotton dress with the little cherries all over it, she felt content, happy, pretty. But when she allowed either Blake or Adam to undress her, when her stomach was exposed to the still air of even a darkened room she felt all too aware of the slightly stretchy skin, the small pouch of fat and flesh that was left over from when she carried those phantom twin boys to term. So while she let herself feel almost complete abandon when either man ran his hands over her breasts and down her stomach, she could never feel completely beautiful, or desirable, or pure. Maybe if she’d been allowed to keep the twins she could view her stomach as it was: a gorgeous reminder of the absurd miracle that pregnancy is. But since the twins were far away, in another woman’s lap, tucked into beds and homes that weren’t hers, she thought of her stomach as an awful, ugly, misshapen reminder of what had been torn from her.