After two years of trying to conceive, life became a blur of hormone charts, cycle tracking, and financial planning. My husband Mark and I agreed to try IVF—a decision made over pancakes and coffee one soft morning in a quiet diner. Each time we added to our savings, we’d toast with our mugs and whisper, “One step closer to Baby.”
Reaching $18,000 felt like hope itself. I pictured a cozy nursery, pale green walls, plush toys, and a bookshelf filled with bedtime stories. I even had a name picked out—something sweet that could suit any child. Our journey hadn’t been easy, but I believed we were in it together.
Three weeks ago, Mark told me he had a work conference out of state. I wished him well, trusting his word completely. But when I checked our account a few days before he was due back, I was stunned to find just over $300 remaining. A call to the bank confirmed that the transactions were real—and all authorized by him.
In that moment, everything changed.
When Mark returned—relaxed, sun-kissed, and cheerfully tired—I said nothing right away. Instead, I suggested we take a quiet trip together to reset. He agreed without hesitation, excited by the idea.
We arrived at a serene mountain resort. It was stunning: glass walls, infinity pools, fresh mountain air. I paid for the trip myself, needing time to think. The next morning, I invited Mark on a sunrise hike. At the overlook, as the sun painted the sky, I finally spoke.
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