When we first began trying, my husband, Ethan, stayed by my side through every disappointing pregnancy test. He would gather me into his arms, kiss my forehead gently, and whisper, “We’ll try again,” as if hope were the most natural thing in the world.
But after the fourth failed treatment, something changed.
We stopped talking about baby names. The nursery we had once spent an entire Sunday imagining slowly turned back into a storage room.
Children became a subject we quietly avoided.
I began noticing how Ethan watched families when we went out to eat. He’d look for a moment too long, and the instant he realized I’d seen him, he’d glance away quickly. He never mentioned it. I didn’t either.
That was the real issue.
We both worked from home, and some days it felt like we were carefully stepping around each other.
We moved in polite circles, cautious and restrained.
