After four years of failed treatments, I thought I'd learned how to survive awkward comments, forced sympathy, and cruel jokes about my infertility. Then, at my thirty-fifth birthday dinner, my mother-in-law handed me a velvet jewelry box and smiled like she had finally found the perfect gift.
My husband, Thomas, and I had been trying to have a baby for four years when I turned thirty-five.
By then, I could give myself an injection without looking.
I learned to read Thomas's face before he said anything, especially after appointments.
By then, hope had started feeling less like optimism nta chafar and more like a habit I couldn't quite break.
I knew which clinic rooms had the least uncomfortable chairs. I knew which nurses talked too brightly after bad news. I knew exactly how long it took Thomas to reach for my hand after a doctor used the word "unlikely."
I learned to read Thomas's face before he said anything, especially after appointments.
