the bathroom cabinet, behind towels and cleaning supplies, hoping—foolishly—that I’d have time to explain everything properly.
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’d 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,
