I never imagined that “giving up” could bring so much peace. Three years of trying… three years of calendars, test strips, blood work, nutritionists, whispers after every doctor’s appointment. Three years of pretending not to care when friends announced their pregnancies. And then, one day, we just… stopped.

We didn’t talk about it anymore. We didn’t track anything, didn’t schedule intimacy like it was another appointment on the list. We just decided to live. To breathe. To let go of a dream that hurt too much to chase.

This summer break, we chose Mallorca. My family was there for the first week — warm evenings, long lunches, the ocean sparkling in that stubborn Spanish sun. She laughed more than she had in months, but I noticed small things. How she winced in the morning when the coffee was brewing. How she rubbed her temples in the afternoons. How she ate little, saying it was the heat. I didn’t press. I’ve learned that sometimes love means letting silence do the work.

The second week, it was just us. No schedules, no commitments. One afternoon, we were in our little villa, getting ready to head out. She stood in front of the mirror, fixing her hair. I slipped behind her, sliding my arm around her waist. My hand rested on her stomach, and in the reflection, I saw it — maybe it was just the light, or the angle, but it looked a little fuller.

I grinned at her in the mirror. “Careful, cariño. If you keep eating all that ensaïmada, you’ll come back to Madrid with a little belly. Looks almost like…” I paused for dramatic effect. “Like you’re pregnant.”

She laughed, but it wasn’t the kind of laugh that says you’re ridiculous. It was soft, thoughtful, almost nervous. She didn’t say much after that.

That evening, I was out on the terrace, watching the waves bleed gold in the setting sun. I heard the bathroom door click shut behind her. A few minutes passed. Then a few more.

When she finally stepped out, her eyes were wide, almost frightened. In her hand, a small white stick — the kind I’d seen too many times before, but never like this. This one had two pink lines, bright as the sky at dawn.

For a moment, I couldn’t move. My heart hammered in my chest, my throat tight. All the years of disappointment, of telling ourselves “maybe next time,” melted away in an instant. My mind couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry, so I just pulled her into my arms and held her as if I could anchor the moment in place forever.

She trembled against me, but she was smiling through tears. My own eyes burned. I pressed my forehead to hers, breathing her in, feeling the weight of three years lift.

“Amor,” I whispered, my voice breaking just a little, “we just won the most important race of our lives.”