My breathing evens out.
And for the first time since the doctor spoke, I don’t feel like I’m drowning.
He wraps his arms around me when I nod, and I melt into his side. I let myself cry those deep, aching sobs that shake my entire body.
He doesn’t let go.
He holds me like I’m whole, like I’m not broken and defective beyond repair.
Like I’m still the woman he fell in love with.
And somehow, through his touch, through the warmth of his body against mine, I believe—just for a second—that maybe he still sees me that way too. I continue to cry into his shoulder until there’s nothing left. Until my tears dry and my sobs become soft, shallow breaths.
We don’t speak.
What is there to say?
I’ve failed him.
As a fiancée.
As a woman.
I can’t give him the family he deserves.
And no matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise, I don’t know if we’ll ever truly recover from that.
Yes, we have three frozen chances at a future, but they come with so many maybes.
Maybe the eggs will survive.
Maybe we’ll find someone willing to carry our child.
Maybe, just maybe, it’ll all work out.
Maybe it won’t too.
But who willingly goes through months of injections and hormones just to hand over the baby they’ve grown inside them?
And the thought of another woman carryinghischild?
It makes my stomach twist in ways I can’t describe.
This feels cruel.
I don’t want it to be like this.
But I can’t see another way.
Somehow, I have to accept that motherhood may not be in the cards for me. And as much as I try not to think it, the truth won’t leave me alone.
Colt deserves to be a father.
And if I can’t give him that?
What hope is there for us?
***
