That night, when we got home, I didn’t ask. I couldn’t. The thought of hearing him confirm it made me feel like I’d fall apart completely. Instead, I moved through the motions, hanging up my coat, washing my face, brushing my teeth while he hummed softly in the other room.
I lay in bed with my back to him, staring into the dark, every muscle in my body tense. He slipped under the covers, kissed my shoulder, and whispered, “Love you.”
I didn’t answer.
Sleep didn’t come. My mind spun with possibilities. Had he had a vasectomy? Was he taking something behind my back? Or was it something even more permanent? I remembered every doctor’s visit, every chart, every test result that showed “unexplained infertility.” Had they all been blind to the truth, or had he hidden it so carefully that no one questioned it?
And why?
The man I thought I knew had soothed me through tears, encouraged me to hope, and told me to trust time. But if he had knowingly prevented me from conceiving, then every comforting word had been a lie.
By morning, my stomach hurt from clenching with dread.
I couldn’t bring myself to confront him directly. Instead, I made an appointment with my doctor and requested access to every test and record. I wanted to comb through them myself, though part of me already knew.
When I sat in the sterile office, the doctor’s voice was steady. “We ran every standard test on you. Hormone levels, ovulation, and imaging. There was no conclusive evidence of infertility.”
I forced my voice to remain calm. “And my husband? Was he ever tested?”
