I’m 39 now, and for a long time I thought the worst day of my life was the night my husband left me because I was pregnant with a girl.
Looking back, that was probably the day my real life started.
Michael and I tried for a baby for seven years.
He didn’t just want a baby. He wanted a son.
Seven years of tests, appointments, hormones, charts, false hope, and quiet crying in bathrooms where nobody could hear me. Infertility does not just break your heart. It changes the air in a marriage. Every month starts to feel like a verdict.
Michael wanted a child badly, but even then there were signs I tried too hard to excuse.
He didn’t just want a baby. He wanted a son.
At first, it sounded like the kind of foolish fantasy some men carry around before reality teaches them better.
“My boy is going to play baseball with me,” he used to say.
I remember staring at him.
Or, “I need a son to carry the family forward.”
I would laugh and say, “You know girls exist, right?”
Sometimes he laughed too.
Sometimes he didn’t.
Once, after a bad fertility appointment, he said, “If we ever do have a kid, I’m not going through all this just to end up with a girl.”
I remember staring at him.
That should have warned me.
He shrugged and said, “I’m just being honest.”
That should have warned me.
So should the way he blamed me for everything our bodies were doing.
Never directly at first. Just little cuts.
