Mason laughs and we work quietly, side by side, the clink of serving spoons and plates filling the space between us.
When we finally sit down, he bows his head, his hand sliding over mine. “Lord, thank You for this day, for family who meets us where we are, and for the peace only You can give. Help us trust You with what we don’t understand yet. Amen.”
I look up at him, eyes stinging but warm. “Amen.”
Chapter 25
Megan
The smell of sanitizer mixed with floral air freshener hits me first when I walk into the doctor’s office. It’s clean and quiet, with soft music playing overhead and a row of framed baby photos lining the wall—smiling parents, tiny hands, pink hospital hats.
It used to make me smile. Now I mostly try not to look.
I check in at the front desk and take a seat in the waiting room. There’s a woman across from me, clearly pregnant, resting a hand on her belly while she scrolls on her phone. Another flips through a parenting magazine, a baby car seat by her feet. I fold my hands in my lap and focus on a tiny scuff on the floor instead.
The nurse calls my name after a few minutes. “Megan? Come on back.”
She’s cheerful, and I do my best to match her energy. She leads me down the hallway, chatting about the weather, how warm it’s been for middle of April. I nod along, answering when I need to, until we step into the exam room.
“Go ahead and undress from the waist down, and the doctor will be in soon,” she says kindly before closing the door behind her.
I do as told, slipping into the robe, climbing up onto the crinkly white paper, and laying the drape across my lap. I’vebeen doing this for years. It’s routine. Yearly, quick, and easy. But this time feels different. Because this time I have questions.
When the doctor comes in, she greets me with that practiced friendly-yet-professional smile.
“How have you been?” she asks, pulling up my chart on the computer.
“Good.” I pause. “Mostly.”
She looks up with that knowing smile. “Mostly?”
I tuck my hands under the paper on my lap. “Well, my husband and I have been trying for a baby since last summer—so, nine months now—and I’m starting to think something’s wrong with me.”
Her expression softens immediately. “Are your cycles regular?”
“Pretty much. Give or take a few days.”
“And you’ve been tracking ovulation?”
“Yeah. Religiously.”
She nods thoughtfully and types something into the computer. “Alright. So, nine months of trying is still within the normal range actually. We don’t start to worry until it’s been a full year of actively trying.”
I nod, but that doesn’t make me feel better. She’s telling me I have to suffer three more months before they want to do anything to help?
She smiles kindly. “I know that’s not what you want to hear. If it doesn’t happen by then, we can run some tests, check hormone levels, ovulation patterns, things like that. But for now, just keep doing what you’re doing.”
Her tone is gentle, but it still doesn’t make me feel better. I don’t know why part of me expected to show up here today and be told some top secret information in regard to conceiving.
“Okay” is all I manage.
She nods. “You’re doing everything you can, Megan. Don’t lose hope, alright?”
I force a smile, because sitting here and discussing it more with her obviously won’t help. “I won’t.”
Within ten minutes the exam is done and I’m dressed again, checking out at the front desk with my next appointment card in hand for next year. My mind automatically wanders to a year from now.
Where will we be by then? Will I be a mom? Or at least…will I be expecting? It’s possible. All of it is still possible.
