I can’t have children.
When we first began trying, my husband, Ethan, stayed by my side through every disappointing pregnancy test. He would gather me into his arms, kiss my forehead gently, and whisper, “We’ll try again,” as if hope were the most natural thing in the world.
But after the fourth failed treatment, something changed.
We stopped talking about baby names. The nursery we had once spent an entire Sunday imagining slowly turned back into a storage room.
Children became a subject we quietly avoided.
I began noticing how Ethan watched families when we went out to eat. He’d look for a moment too long, and the instant he realized I’d seen him, he’d glance away quickly. He never mentioned it. I didn’t either.
That was the real issue.
We both worked from home, and some days it felt like we were carefully stepping around each other.
We moved in polite circles, cautious and restrained.
One evening after yet another doctor’s appointment, I sat on the edge of our bed and finally spoke the words aloud.
“Maybe we should stop trying.”
Ethan stood by the window with his back turned toward me. “I don’t want to give up on having a child.”
Several weeks later, he walked in carrying a thick stack of paperwork under his arm, his face bright with excitement. “I’ve been researching surrogacy.”
I looked down at the documents and then back at him. For the first time in a long while, I felt a flicker of hope that maybe we would be okay.
From that point forward, Ethan took charge of everything—the agency, the legal arrangements, the interviews.
Eventually he introduced me to Claire. She was kind, easygoing, and immediately likable. She already had two children of her own.
The contracts were finalized. The embryo transfer succeeded.
Claire was pregnant.
For the first time in years, Ethan and I felt like we were becoming a family again. Like we were finally building something together after so long spent watching our plans crumble.
In the beginning, we visited Claire together. We brought vitamins, bags of groceries, and even a pregnancy pillow I had spent nearly forty minutes picking out online.
Claire laughed and waved us off. “You two are spoiling me.”
But a few weeks later, Ethan started going by himself.
One afternoon he kissed my forehead, grabbed his keys, and called over his shoulder, “Sweetheart, Claire mentioned she might be running low on vitamins. I’ll bring her some.”
“Now?” I asked.
“It’ll only take an hour.”
After that, the visits became more frequent—during the workday, late evenings, even weekends.
One Saturday I was standing at the stove stirring dinner when he hurried through the kitchen, already slipping on his jacket.
