I spent thirty thousand dollars trying to become a mother. What I wasn’t prepared for was the silence that came after the treatments failed. I was 38, and it had become something I could say plainly: I couldn’t have children.
My husband Andrew never blamed me. He made tea, held my coat, and asked gently after every doctor’s appointment, “Should we try again?” Sometimes, I didn’t answer. I’d just go to the kitchen and peel apples we wouldn’t eat—because the sound was quiet and harmless in a world that didn’t feel that way.
We’d been together nearly ten years. Andrew believed in me, but I couldn’t help wondering: If he had married someone else… would he already be a dad?
His mother, Gloria, tried to be supportive—sort of.
“You still have time,” she’d say. “I had Andrew at 38. Maybe just… try fewer chemicals and more prayer.”
Andrew would defend her. “She’s just old-fashioned.”
But deep down, I felt like she didn’t see me as a whole woman if I hadn’t given birth.
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