I hadn’t even told him yet. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I was terrified.
Terrified of hope. Terrified of disappointment. Terrified of reopening wounds we had spent years trying to stitch together.
Jake and I had been married for seven years. Seven years of love, laughter, and quiet companionship—and seven years of negative tests, doctor visits, polite sympathy, and whispered apologies in the dark.
When the doctors told Jake he was infertile, something inside him broke. He never said it outright, but I saw it in the slump of his shoulders, in the way he avoided conversations about children, in the apologies he offered for things that were never his fault.
“I’m sorry,” he would say, over and over. “I know you wanted to be a mom.”
But I hadn’t given up. Not on him. Not on us. And not on the possibility—however small—that the doctors could be wrong.
I don’t even remember leaving the office. The next thing I knew, I was gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white, tears blurring the road as I drove home.
Jake’s car was already in the driveway.
My heart pounded as I stepped inside. The house felt tense, as though it were holding its breath. Jake stood in the living room, pacing back and forth, his jaw clenched, his face flushed with anger and pain.
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