something in him broke. He never said it outright, but I saw it in the way his shoulders slumped, in how he avoided conversations about children, in how he apologized for things that were never his fault.
“I’m sorry,” he’d 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 didn’t even remember leaving the office. I only knew that the next moment, I was
