I’m seventy-five years old now, and when I look back on my life, I don’t count the years by calendars or anniversaries. I count them by moments of love and loss. By doors that opened—and doors that never did.
For most of my life, it was just my husband, Thomas, and me.
We married young, full of hope and the quiet certainty that children would one day fill our home with noise and mess and laughter. But life had other plans. When I was in my early thirties, after years of trying, doctors finally gave us the answer we had been dreading. I was infertile. Treatments followed—long, exhausting, humiliating treatments—but none of them worked.
Eventually, we stopped hoping the way we once had. We learned to live around the absence.
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