But they did, I thought, watching the city lights blur through the windshield. They meant everything by it. And I was about to discover just how far they were willing to go.
Chapter 2: The Defective Appliance
Fourteen months into our marriage, the air in my gynecologist’s office felt sterile and thin. Dr. Aris sat across from me, her expression a mask of professional empathy.
“It’s Polycystic Ovary Syndrome,” she explained, tapping her pen against a chart. “PCOS. It’s relatively mild, certainly manageable, but it complicates things. Conceiving naturally is going to take significantly longer than the statistical average. We’ll need to implement strict monitoring cycles and, likely, pharmaceutical intervention.”
I nodded numbly, holding it together until I reached the safety of my sedan in the parking garage. There, I gripped the steering wheel and wept violently for twenty minutes. The tears weren’t just for the diagnosis; they were born from a terrifying, creeping dread about what this meant for my survival in the Hargrove family.
