‘Of course. And you’re absolutely right,’ she assures us. ‘At thirty-eight, seeking assessment after six months is perfectly reasonable. It doesn’t suggest anything is wrong; we’re simply being cautious with time.’
‘That’s good to know, doc.’ Ax gives my thigh a light squeeze, and I smile, well aware that he already knew this from his research.
‘Because neither of you has had a child yet, it’s helpful totest both partners from the start so we can get a complete picture,’ she continues. ‘Taylor, we’ll begin with a comprehensive blood panel to look at your hormones and ovarian reserve, and we’ll also do an ultrasound to check your uterus and ovaries. Since your cycles are fairly regular, scheduling should be straightforward.’
I nod, absorbing each word like a lifeline.
‘And Axel, we’ll arrange a semen analysis for you.’
He nods: no fuss, no ego, just the steady support he’s shown since he found me that morning.
‘And once we have all the results,’ she finishes gently, ‘we’ll review them together. If everything looks healthy, you can continue trying naturally with confidence.’
Confidence.
The word makes something tender and aching expand in my chest.
‘Most couples your age simply need a bit more time,’ she adds. ‘But gathering information early gives us the chance to deal with anything promptly.’
‘Yes,’ I manage. ‘Thank you, Ms Ellingham.’
She stands, that warm, reassuring smile back in place. ‘Our coordinator will get everything arranged. One step at a time.’
One step…
Ax wraps his hand around mine and leads me out, his thumb brushing slow circles over my knuckles.
‘You heard the doc,’ he murmurs through the mask. ‘One step at a time. We’ve got this, Baby Girl.’
And I nod, even as the fragile hope in my chest flutters like wings against glass.
Axel
One Month Later…
I pull up outside the Harley Street clinic and just sit there, gripping the wheel of my Audi until my knuckles go white. The building looks harmless enough – clean lines, frosted glass, soft lighting bleeding through the windows – but it feels like it’s glaring right back at me, ready to tell me I’m the problem.
I could’ve done with my Ducati to blast away the black mood gnawing at my gut, but instead, I’m forced to drive. Turns out it ain’t just sex you’re made to abstain from before judgement day; it’s fast bikes too.
I cut the engine. The car stills; the menacing roar quits. Shame about the one inside my head – that ain’t quitting until this is over.
I smack my fist against the wheel and step out. Hunching my shoulders against the freezing wind, I cross the pavement and duck inside.
The reception area is just as quiet as it was the first day we came. A few people sit scattered on the plush grey chairs, pretending to look at their phones, pretending they don’t notice me, even though they do. I stand out like a beacon in reverse: black on white. A storm in the peace.
The receptionist gives me a polite smile and checks me in. Almost immediately, a nurse appears and leads me away. No waiting today. Thank fuck for small mercies.
She’s friendly. Efficient. Clearly used to men pretending this is no big deal.
She opens the door to a small, private room and steps aside.
I guess it’s what I expect:
Grey chair.
Table with magazines.
Bin. Wipes. Tissues. Instructions.
