My name is Olivia Bennett. I used to be Olivia Carter—the wife of a man who measured my worth by one thing: my ability to have children.
I lived in Austin, Texas, married to Jason Carter, a financial analyst whose arrogance matched his ambition. At first, our marriage seemed perfect—date nights, weekend getaways, long conversations about the future. Jason dreamed of a big family, and I thought I did too.
But trying for a baby changed everything. Months of negative pregnancy tests turned patience into frustration. Every doctor visit, every hormone treatment, every failed cycle felt like a personal failure.
“You’re not trying hard enough,” Jason snapped once when I broke down over the side effects.
By year three, our home had turned into a battlefield of silence. He tracked my ovulation on his phone, scheduled intimacy like a business meeting, and withdrew completely. When I cried, he blamed me: “Stress is causing infertility.” He made my pain his weapon.
One night, after another disappointment, he told me quietly:
“Olivia, I think we need a break. From this… and from us.”
I asked, heart in pieces, “Are you leaving me because I can’t give you a child?”
Continue reading on next page…