For years, my home with my husband, John, felt like an emotional minefield. We danced around each other, choosing words the way you’d choose which floorboard to step on in a rickety, old house—always trying to avoid the creaks of disappointment and tension. Every month, as the fertile window approached, the air would thicken with unspoken pressure.
“We can take a break,” John would suggest, his hands resting gently on my shoulders, his thumbs tracing small, weary circles.
“I don’t want a break,” I would reply, the words sharp with desperation. “I want a baby.”
He never argued. What could he possibly say to soothe the primal ache that consumed me?
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