I would sit on the bathroom floor, staring at another negative result, while Michael waited outside the door.
Sometimes he hugged me.
Other times, he simply said, “Maybe next month.”
I held on to those words because I had nothing else.
Then, during our fifth year of marriage, Michael changed.
It happened gradually enough that I didn’t recognize it at first.
Whenever I mentioned a fertility clinic, his face tightened.
Whenever a friend announced a pregnancy, he became irritable.
And whenever my mother asked whether we had considered getting checked, Michael found a reason to end the conversation.
“We don’t need strangers interfering in our marriage,” he told me one evening.
“But we both want children.”
“We’ve already discussed this.”
“No, Michael. We haven’t discussed anything. You’ve just told me to stop asking.”
He stared at me for several seconds.
Then he walked away.
I followed him into the bedroom, desperate to repair whatever I had broken.
