Once, after another negative test, Bruce found me sitting on the bathroom floor with my back against the tub.
“I can’t keep doing this,” I whispered.
He sat beside me and took my hand.
“Then tonight we don’t hope,” he said. “Tonight we just get through dinner.”
I loved him for that. I loved that he understood hope could feel heavy too.
Eventually, we stopped.
Every month asked us to hope, and every month took something from us when hope failed again.
Not because we stopped wanting a child. We stopped because it felt like our whole life had narrowed into waiting for good news that never came.
Every month asked us to hope, and every month took something from us when hope failed again. At some point, without either of us saying it clearly, we stepped back and built a quieter life. We traveled when we could, redid the kitchen, and let friends think we were at peace.
