I sat in my car in the parking lot of the fertility clinic, watching a woman walk out holding an ultrasound photo.
Her face glowed like she’d just been handed the world.
I was so empty I couldn’t even cry anymore.
At home, my husband and I danced around each other, choosing words the way you’d choose which floorboard to step on in an old house.
I was so empty I couldn’t
even cry anymore.
A few months later, as my next fertile phase approached, the tension returned to our home.
“We can take a break.” My husband’s hands were on my shoulders, thumbs making small circles.
“I don’t want a break. I want a baby.”
He didn’t argue. What could he say?
The miscarriages came one after another.
The miscarriages came
one after another.
Each one felt faster than the last, colder somehow.
The third one happened while I was folding baby clothes. I’d bought them on sale, couldn’t help myself.
I was holding a onesie with a duck on the front when I felt that familiar, terrible warmth.
My husband was kind and patient, but the losses were taking their toll on our relationship.
The losses were
taking their toll
on our relationship.
I could see the quiet fear in his eyes every time I said, “Maybe next time.”
He was afraid for me, afraid of me and my pain, afraid of what all this wanting was doing to us both.
After the fifth miscarriage, the doctor stopped using hopeful language. He sat across from me in his sterile office with its cheerful prints of babies on the wall.
“Some bodies just… don’t cooperate,” he said gently. “There are other options.”
