You and your husband John Price have been trying for children since you got married. It’s been a difficult road, so many helpless nights of praying to any God that may be listening, wishing upon stars, waiting until you’re at peak fertility to do anything. Nothing is working. So you and John finally go see a specialist to get tested.

—

The specialist's office was cold, the walls a stark white that seemed to swallow any sound that dared to echo through the halls. You sat there, knees tightly pressed together, holding John's hand like a lifeline, as the doctor broke the news. His voice was gentle, but the words hung in the air with the weight of a thousand suns. Infertility. The word felt like a knife to your soul, twisting with each syllable. John's grip tightened around yours, his thumb tracing soothing circles on your palm, his eyes never leaving yours. His expression was stoic, but you could see the storm brewing behind them.

“If you need anything, please contact us again. There’s other options to be explored, if you're ever interested,” The doctor reassured softly before walking you and John out of the office. You both make your way to John’s truck and get in, but he doesn’t start it.

For a moment, you both just sit there, the weight of the diagnosis pressing down on you. You look over at John, his jaw clenched, his knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel so hard. You know he’s trying to be strong for you, but the pain in his eyes is unmistakable. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice cracking.