He leans over and pinches the ring between his fingers, then slides it onto mine. My heart explodes as he places a soft kisson my lips. The band settles against my skin—warm, heavy, our history tightening.
“We’re navigating a crossroads. I know we don’t see eye to eye all the time. Things have been difficult for both of us. I wanted you to know that even during our greatest challenges, you’re my soul. You’re the woman I love with all my heart. I always have, since those first months together.”
Tears gather, then fall as I reach for his gift from me. “This is your main present. Everything else I bought is meaningless, just noise,” I whisper, and he kisses me again.
My decision to give him this was difficult and went against everything I believe. But being married means compromising. It means putting your partner’s wishes ahead of your own. It means making tough decisions. It means stepping up. It means gambling with a heart that has already learned it won’t win. We can’t afford another bill. I can survive another sorrow. I hand him the box anyway.
He holds it in both hands. Mini snowmen stare back at him, pulled tightly over the object. With little hesitation, he rips the paper away and discards it on the floor. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he stares at the blue and white box.
An unopened pregnancy test. A packet containing an appointment for an IVF consultation in January, the signed consent forms, and a receipt for the small deposit I paid. My gift to him was another chance to be a father.
“One round,” I tell him. “I’ll try one round of IVF with you, then if we don’t succeed, we move on from this permanently.” He crawls over to me and kisses me fiercely. “Thank you,” he mumbles as he comes up for a breath. “Thank you, my darling. In my heart, I know I’ll be a father because of you.” Hope flares in his eyes, blinding. I can’t look at him. His faith is enviable. Mine disappeared with the last negative test.
I press my forehead to his and nod. The tree lights flicker, then I squeeze my eyes closed as a single tear runs down my cheek. It tastes of salt and surrender.
But pretending that my silence means the same as his belief is easier than owning the lie I just agreed to live.
Chapter ten
Amy
“Hey, boss lady,” Trey shouts from the reception desk. “Why the long face?” I hold up my hand, signaling that I don’t want to talk. His voice follows me, half concerned, half playful. I ignore it. It grates. I keep walking to my office door.
Once on the other side, I close it behind me and flick the lock. The faint click echoes like relief, erecting a barrier between me and the world outside. The blue sofa shoved in the corner looks appealing; I want to lie down and sleep for a week.
Terry and I had our first meeting with the fertility consultant this morning, and the odds of a successful IVF cycle are dismal. I always knew they were, but having someone spell it out for you is devastating. Dr. Hughes leaned back, and the chair leather sighed. He looked young, older than a junior doctor, younger than the furniture. His stats were good, which in this world tops out near twenty percent success.
“Mr. and Mrs. Trodden, thank you for coming in to see me today. It looks like we’re dealing with unexplained infertility.” We nodded but remained silent, focused on his every word. “When we don’t know the cause, we manage probabilities. We’ll do everything we can.”
He slid over a few leaflets. Cartoon eggs and sperm smiled back, lecturing about healthy eating and improving our chances. I wanted to laugh or cry. I’m not sure. But instead, I stared at the pink cartoon sperm waving like it knew something I didn’t.
“IVF is a physically and emotionally exhausting process for both of you. Mrs. Trodden…” I raised my hand to stop him.
“Please, call me Amy,” I told him.
“Amy,” he said, “there are tests we need before we start—ovarian reserves, scans, and infectious disease screening.” His eyes moved to Terry. “Then we’ll check your semen, Mr. Trodden.”
“When would you expect us to be able to start the process?” Terry asks, eyes fixed on the desk.
“In three months,” the doctor responded. “Early June is probable. All being well with the tests.” He turned his attention back to me. “We’ll stimulate your ovaries for a week or two. If follicles don’t develop, there’s a chance we cancel. If they do, thirty-six hours later, we retrieve your eggs.”
There was so much information to process and take on board. It felt like being handed a manual for building a miracle, knowing all the pieces weren’t in the box.
“At retrieval,” the doctor continued, “we will ask you to provide a sperm sample, Mr. Trodden. Usually, that’s straightforward. If not, there are other procedural options. We can go direct to the source.”
“Direct to the source?” Terry said, all the color draining from his cheeks. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Well, sometimes there are blockages between the testicles and ejaculate. In that rare case, we remove sperm directly from your testes.” My husband visibly paled further. The doctor kept talking about protein, sleep, and positive outcomes, and we left holding the leaflets like wet laundry.
The hospital café was quiet at four in the afternoon. Terry and I sat at a table in the corner. A small, burly woman with dyed black hair and heavily made-up eyes bounced over to take our order. “Two white coffees, please,” I said, and she smiled.
“Amz, the doctor said…” Terry tipped his chin at the leaflet on the table. “Decaf for hers,” he told the woman without looking up, and she left us alone.
“Terry, you can’t control everything I drink or eat.” I plucked a sugar packet from the condiments, twisting it until it split, white dust spilling over the melamine.
“I don’t want to, Amz,” he said, softer now. “But the doctor did say…”
“Let’s just have these and go. I have work to do.”
