With that final statement, he storms out the door and leaves me standing, watching after him. The door slams, but the silence that follows is deafening.
Staring at the wood, I try to picture our future. It crumbles before my eyes. I can’t see him in mine.
Chapter sixteen
Terry
Amy and I sit in the doctor’s waiting room, not speaking. This appointment wasn’t my idea; we’re here because she begged me. The day after I stormed out of our home, she came to me and asked to make a final appointment at the fertility clinic. One last time. Again.
“Maybe I was too hasty,” she said. “Perhaps only agreeing to one round of IVF was short-sighted.”
I’d shrugged.
Then she begged, and it broke my heart watching her on her knees, apologizing for what she said. Apologizing for being unable to give me a child.
Her willingness to try again should’ve come as a relief, her desperation to mend the cracks in our marriage. But all it did was highlight that she was doing this for me, or out of fear of what may happen next. Either way, guilt and hope wrestled deepin my soul, ripping each other apart. Ultimately, hope won. So, we made the appointment, and now, here we are.
Dr. Hughes appears in front of us, but neither of us notices him with our eyes trained on the floor. “Mr. and Mrs. Trodden,” he says, and we jump with surprise. “Follow me.” He leads us to his office and invites us to take a seat. “How can I help you both?” he asks. His gaze moves between us, waiting for one of us to speak.
I don’t even know what she expects. We never discussed it beyond booking the time slot, and we’re hardly talking in general. The silence has taken up residence in our home, holding all the words we should say.
What I overheard her tell Trey at the gym still stings. But the worst part of it is knowing it was true. I’m angry at her for saying it, but furious at myself for letting life happen the way it has.
I wait for Amy to take the lead; this was her choice, though I’m not sure either of us are fully here. She clears her throat audibly.
“Thank you for seeing us again, doctor,” she says, her voice meek. “We.” She pauses. “I wanted to speak to you again and discuss a further round of IVF.” He sits slightly straighter in his chair and takes a breath. “I want to understand our chances if we decide to try again.”
He visibly steels himself before speaking. “I’ll be honest,” he replies, “the chances of you conceiving are slim. According to the statistics, I would say less than one percent.”
“Oh,” Amy stammers and peeks at me from under her tear-filled lashes. I say nothing. There’s nothing to say. Her eyes search my face for something. Comfort, maybe. Support, for sure. But I have nothing to give. The unfairness of it all knocks any humanity from my core. Blocking out the reality that, with his words, our marriage has died.
“Mrs. Trodden, I would be surprised if the NHS would agree to the second round of treatment. I suspect your only optionis to pay privately, but as I said, the odds are low of it being successful.”
“Thank you for your honesty,” I mutter as I stand and walk out of the room. I can’t listen to another man tell me that my dream is over. That what I wanted my entire life isn’t going to happen. The situation is crystal clear.
Moments later, Amy follows behind me at a run. She takes my hand, and we walk out of the clinic without looking back. Together… but thousands of miles apart.
That evening, we sit at the dinner table pushing pasta around our plates. The silence is deafening. “I want to try,” I tell her. “I want to have another round.” She peeks up at me, her eyes wide as she listens. “I can’t imagine not being a father, Amy. I need to have a child.”
My plea sounds desperate even to my own ears. And it is. But if I let go of my wish of fatherhood, what else is left for me? I’ll be a shell with no way of filling the void.
All day, one thought has chewed through me. I can’t walk away from this dream. Becoming a father is non-negotiable.
“We can’t afford it,” she argues.
“We’ll get a loan,” I challenge. “What’s another few thousand pounds of debt?”
“No,” she whispers, “I can’t go through it again with such poor odds. My heart can’t take it. I’ll go insane. It will break me, Terry. You can’t ask me to go through this.”
I slam my hands on the table. “Amy,” I growl, “we must try again.” Desperation makes you say crazy things, and I sound like a bastard. I’m being one, but I can’t help it. Every pushback from her is another bolt on the door.
She shakes her head.
“I deserve another chance. My sperm is good; it could happen if you would bloody try. One more chance is all I’m asking you for. I deserve one fucking miracle in my life.”
The venom spills from my lips, ugly and raw. My hatred for myself rising with each syllable. I know my wife is the one who carried the strain of the injections, the hormones, the failure, but right now, all I see is my future shrinking. I hear myself bargaining with statistics, wishing that fate would give me one last roll of the dice.
“Terry, please. I’ve made my decision,” she mumbles. “The answer is no. We need to move on from this, or there will always be one more attempt. One more try. We need to step off the hamster wheel and accept our lot.
