The doctor’s office smelled of antiseptic and a strange lavender aroma. She sat stiffly across from Dr. Evans, her hands clasped in her lap.
“I’m afraid your chances of natural conception remain extremely low, Laura,” he said, gently sliding a folder toward her.
“Your AMH levels have dropped even further since last year.”
He tried to nod, but the pain in his chest made it difficult to breathe.
“Is there nothing? Nothing left to try?” The question came out broken, as if his hope was on the brink of collapse.
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