Nine months now of watching that little screen show nothing but one line.
I can hear the sounds of Mason getting ready for church coming from the bedroom. His boots scuffing against the floor, the rattle of his belt.
It’s Easter Sunday, which means church first and then a big lunch at his parents’. Lots of food, an Easter egg hunt for the kids.
It was fun last year, but this year I don’t want to go to anything.
Because I can already picture it: Karissa cutting up Gage’s food, Ella doing Hallie’s. Emma and Cora sitting side by side like two tiny best friends, giggling. Addison in the middle of it all, her round belly pressed against the table, glowing like she was born to be a mom, because she was, and she’s due in less then two months.
And that’s hard for me.
The holidays were already tough. Thanksgiving came with Addison laughing about how hungry the baby made her, how she couldn’t stop eating the gravy. Everyone thought it washilarious. Then Christmas came and they did the gender reveal—blue smoke, cheers, the name announcement—Weston. I smiled and clapped with everyone else. I really am happy for them. They’re going to be incredible parents.
But I’m so jealous. And I don’t know how to not feel that way.
Every time we left the big house, I’d start crying before we even hit the end of the driveway. Mason never had to ask why. He just kept one hand on the wheel, the other reaching for mine, not letting go.
Later, when we got home, he’d pull me in close and tell me how proud he was that I held it together until I didn’t have to anymore. And I’d cry harder because I didn’t want to make anyone feel guilty for their joy. I don’t want Addison thinking she can’t be excited about her baby. I don’t want Karissa feeling bad for her postpartum depression. I don’t want Ella worrying that talking about wanting to be home with the girls more will somehow hurt me.
No one knows what we’re really walking through.
We decided a few months back to tell everyone we weren’t “trying” anymore, just letting things happen naturally. Jesse and Cody seemed relieved. They both gave Mason a pat on the back, saying something like, “That’s a good idea, man. Just enjoy married life while you can.” He smiled and laughed it off, like it didn’t sting.
But it was my idea.
I didn’t want questions or sympathy or that careful tone people use when they don’t know what to say. And it worked, no one has asked since. But I do feel alone, like I’m suffering in silence, because no one knows the truth.
Mason thinks we should tell them. He says it would help, that they’d pray with us, support us. That maybe if we shared it, I wouldn’t feel so alone.
But I can’t. I don’t want their pity. I don’t want their soft voices or careful looks. I don’t want to walk into that house and have people hesitate before talking about their babies or pregnancies. I don’t want to be the one they tiptoe around.
I pull the bathroom door open and slam the stupid test I hadn’t even shown him yet onto the dresser. “I’m not going,” I say through tears, before heading downstairs.
Mason’s voice follows me, soft but close behind. “Sweetheart.”
I ignore him, reaching for another coffee mug with shaking hands. I pour until it nearly spills over. His footsteps echo down the stairs and soon I can feel him behind me.
“Megan.”
The tears come harder. My vision blurs, heat rushes to my face, and my throat tightens so much I can barely breathe, let alone speak. A hundred thoughts spin through my head at once, like what people will say if I don’t show up to Easter dinner.
Then Mason’s warm, familiar hands find my waist. He presses his chest against my back, resting his chin gently in the crook of my neck. The comfort nearly undoes me.
“Remember I love you,” he murmurs into the quiet.
I sniffle hard, my voice catching. “I can’t go, Mason.”
He lifts his head, turning me gently so I’m facing him. “Talk to me.”
I swipe at my cheeks, trying to steady myself. “I just can’t do it today,” I whisper. “I can’t sit there smiling in front of everyone, pretending I’m fine when I’m not. I can’t sit at that table surrounded by babies when it’s all I want and can’t seem to have.” The last few words break apart on my tongue.
His blue eyes soften, concern and love written all over his face. He slides a hand over mine, his thumb tracing slow circles on my skin.
“Baby…”
“I don’t want to ruin everything,” I manage, choking on the words. “Everyone’s so happy, and I just— I feel broken.”
“Mywifeis not broken.” His tone is quiet but steady, every word firm and certain.
