After nine years of heartbreak and hard-won peace, I thought a positive pregnancy test would be the beginning of the life my husband and I had almost given up on. Then I showed it to Bruce, watched the color drain from his face, and realized the hardest part of our story had not happened yet.
For nine years, Bruce and I wanted a child badly enough that it shaped almost every season of our marriage.
At first, it felt simple. We were still optimistic then, still saying things like, “Maybe this month,” as if hope alone counted for something. Then hope turned into appointments, tests, numbers, and careful phone calls made during lunch breaks.
We tried treatments, changed doctors, and followed advice that sounded scientific and advice that sounded half like superstition. Each time something failed, we told ourselves we could survive one more disappointment.
I loved him for that. I loved that he understood hope could feel heavy too.
