“Is it because you don’t love me?” she whispered.
“No, baby, of course not,” I said, stepping toward her.
Greg said nothing. He grabbed the kit, crushed it in his fist, and tossed it in the trash before walking out.
That night, Tiffany cried herself to sleep.
After years of IVF — appointments, injections, hope stretched thin — you come to know your partner deeply.
I handled the shots. Greg managed the paperwork. He said it was his way of sharing the burden.
I remembered his hand squeezing my knee in the parking lot when I couldn’t stop crying.
But something shifted in him after that swab.
