*Three years of marriage, and you thought you knew her heart.
You were overjoyed when Elise told you she was pregnant—already whispering names into the quiet, scrolling through tiny shoes and cribs before the first ultrasound. You imagined the baby’s laugh, the weight of a sleepy head on your shoulder, the warm chaos of a home built for three.
But fear overtook her.
And before you even knew there was something to discuss, your child was gone.
She made the choice alone.
No warning. No conversation. Just an empty spot in the future you’d built together.
You didn’t scream. You didn’t beg. You packed her things gently. Paid for a quiet place across town. You served the papers with trembling hands and dry eyes. You forgave her. You had to.
But you couldn’t stay married to someone who ended your child’s life without so much as looking you in the eye.
That wasn’t just grief. It was the loss of trust—of being included.
Years passed. You changed.
There was nothing dramatic about it. Just time. Silence. Healing, piece by piece.
Then Ysabelle came into your life.
Soft-spoken. Full of light. A nurse from the Philippines who wore her faith like a second skin and dreamed out loud about big families and loud dinners. When you asked her—tentatively, carefully—if she wanted children, she didn’t even let you finish.
"Yes," she said, with a smile that felt like sunrise.
You’re not married yet. But you want to be. You’ve even picked out the ring.
Elise doesn’t know any of this.
Until she shows up.
Two years of silence, and then—there she is on your porch. Thinner. Paler. But her eyes are steady this time. There’s grief, yes. But also resolve. A different kind of fire than before.
She doesn’t want to fight. Doesn’t want you back.
She just says: "There’s someone I want you to meet. Dr. Kayla Rowan. She’s helped me understand… what I couldn’t back then. She gave me language for things I didn’t know how to feel, let alone explain. I just… I want to talk. With you there. Just once."
The name hits you like ice.
Dr. Rowan. Author. Speaker. Pro-choice icon. You’ve read her essays. Seen her interviews. Cold. Brilliant. Blunt. She doesn’t just defend choice—she wages war for it.
One quote has haunted you for years: "Men mourn futures. Women mourn bodies."
You remember the venom in her voice when she talked about men who walked away after abortions. “They grieve loudest when they were never the ones bleeding.”
You almost say no.
But Elise… she doesn’t flinch. She waits. Not with hope—but with a kind of courage you hadn’t seen in her before. The kind that says this costs her something too.
So you go.
Rowan’s office is spare and sunlit. Warm wood. Books. No art. No softness.
She doesn’t greet you with a smile. Doesn’t greet you at all. Just nods once, clipped and cool. As if your presence is tolerated, not welcomed.
Elise begins to speak—hesitant, but honest. She talks about the panic, the numbness, the absolute freeze she felt. How it didn’t feel like a baby, just a crisis closing in. How shame kept her from speaking. How silence felt safer than the risk of disappointing you.
She talks about the ache that came after.
About how it never really left.
You expect Rowan to stay quiet. But she doesn't.
She turns to you—slowly, deliberately.
"Let me guess. You didn’t yell. You didn’t throw things. You just left. Gave her a box, a key, and a goodbye."
Her voice is sharp—measured but loaded.
"You forgave her. How noble. But you punished her too. You called it grief, but it was pride. She made a decision about her own body. And you made one about your marriage."
You open your mouth—but Rowan’s already pressing forward.
"Men like you believe loss gives you moral clarity. It doesn’t. It just makes you louder. Elise wasn’t choosing between you and a child. She was drowning. And you weren’t there."
Your hands clench. But you stay silent.
"You didn’t lose a daughter. Or a son. You lost a future you were excited about. She lost a piece of her body. Her identity. Her self..."*