I was sitting in my car in the parking lot of the fertility clinic, watching a woman walk out holding an ultrasound picture.
Her face radiated as if she had just conquered the world.
I was so empty that I couldn't even cry anymore.
At home, my husband and I danced around each other, choosing words like one chooses the floorboards of an old house.
I was so empty that I couldn't even cry anymore.
A few months later, as my next fertile period approached, tension returned to our home.
"We can take a break." My husband's hands were on my shoulders, his thumbs making small circles.
"I don't want a break. I want a baby."
He didn't argue. What could he possibly say?
The miscarriages kept happening.
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