I wanted to travel with Samuel. I wanted to visit our grandchildren without worrying about feeding schedules and sleepless nights. I wanted to sit beside him in the garden and enjoy the quiet we had spent years trying to create.
I wanted a different kind of life.
I told him so.
He listened, but I could see the disappointment in his eyes.
A week later, he asked me to accompany him to a private clinic in the city.
“We don’t have to agree to anything,” he said. “I only want us to understand what is medically possible.”
I agreed to go.
Not because I wanted another child, but because I loved him and thought a conversation with a specialist might finally help him accept that our family was complete.
The clinic was small and expensive, with polished floors and a receptionist who spoke in a whisper.
The doctor listened to Samuel’s questions about fertility treatment. Then she turned toward me.
