I read it once.
Then again.
The room seemed to tilt around me.
It wasn’t a medical diagnosis.
It wasn’t proof that Michael could never father a child.
It was proof of something I could no longer explain away.
He had known there was a possibility that he was the one who needed medical attention.
Instead of telling me, he had allowed me to spend years believing that I was defective.
And he had made a conscious decision to keep it that way.
Rebecca wrapped her arms around me as I began to sob.
“I gave him eighteen years,” I said. “Eighteen years of thinking I wasn’t enough.”
“You were always enough.”
“But I believed him.”
“You trusted your husband. That isn’t a crime.”
I held the report against my chest.
For years, I had imagined that discovering the cause of our infertility would destroy my marriage.
Now I understood that the truth had already been destroying it.
