“I’m sorry,” he would say, over and over. “I know you wanted to be a mom.”
But I hadn’t given up. Not on him. Not on us. And not on the possibility—however small—that the doctors could be wrong.
I don’t even remember leaving the office. The next thing I knew, I was gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white, tears blurring the road as I drove home.
Jake’s car was already in the driveway.
My heart pounded as I stepped inside. The house felt tense, as though it were holding its breath. Jake stood in the living room, pacing back and forth, his jaw clenched, his face flushed with anger and pain.
“Tell me the test wasn’t yours!” he shouted the moment he saw me. His voice cracked on the last word.
I closed the door slowly and set my bag down. I didn’t yell back. I didn’t cry. Something inside me went calm, steady—like the center of a storm.
“It is mine, honey,” I said softly.
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