He finally looked at me.
“You’re thirty-seven, Sarah. Your body is changing.”
“But what if something is wrong?”
His expression hardened.
“Why are you always looking for something to be wrong?”
I felt the familiar shame rise inside me.
Perhaps he was right. Perhaps I was worrying too much.
After all, I had never seen a doctor about our infertility. I had no test results, no diagnosis, and no evidence that my body was incapable of carrying a pregnancy.
I had only Michael’s words.
And I had trusted him.
By our fifteenth anniversary, the woman I had once been was almost unrecognizable to me.
I stopped discussing babies with friends because I couldn’t bear their sympathy.
I avoided family gatherings where children ran through the house.
When my younger sister, Rebecca, gave birth to her second child, I stayed home from the hospital because I knew I would cry.
Michael told everyone I was simply sensitive.
