Maybe I should stop thinking about babies so often.
His mother made things worse.
Gwen had always been polite in public, but privately she had strong opinions about what a wife should do.
During one Thanksgiving dinner, she looked at me and said:
“Russell has always wanted to be a father. I hope you understand how important that is to him.”
I smiled politely.
“Of course I do.”
She took another sip of wine.
“Some women just aren’t meant to have children.”
I felt the words land like a slap.
Russell said nothing.
On the drive home, I told him how much his mother’s comment had hurt me.
He sighed.
“Mom didn’t mean anything by it.”
“She said some women aren’t meant to have children.”
“She was trying to make conversation.”
I turned toward the window.
That night, I cried in the bathroom so he wouldn’t hear me.
I didn’t realize then that the silence surrounding Russell’s medical results was the beginning of something much worse.
The Marriage That Slowly Fell Apart
By our fifth year together, having children had become the center of every disagreement.
Russell began spending more time at work.
He took business trips without much explanation.
He changed the password on his phone.
He started sleeping with his device beneath his pillow.
I told myself it was stress.
When I asked whether he was unhappy, he always gave the same answer.
“I’m tired, Tessa. That’s all.”
Then came the anniversary dinner that I still remember.
I had booked a table at our favorite restaurant.
I wore the dress he had once said made me look beautiful.
I brought a small gift.
A framed photograph from our wedding.
Russell arrived forty minutes late.
He barely looked at the picture.
“Can we not do this tonight?” he asked.
I stared at him.
“Do what?”
“Pretend everything is fine.”
My heart sank.
“Are you saying you don’t want to be married anymore?”
He looked down at his plate.
“I don’t know if I can keep living like this.”
“Like what?”
“Waiting.”
I felt my throat tighten.
“I’ve been waiting too, Russell.”
“But you’re not the one who wants to be a father.”
The words hurt more than he probably intended.
“I want children just as much as you do.”
“Then why can’t we have them?”
I stared at him.
There was no answer I could give.
We had already spent thousands of dollars on consultations, medications, and procedures.
I had followed every instruction.
I had attended every appointment.
I had done everything I knew how to do.
But Russell had made me feel as though my body was the only thing standing between him and happiness.
A few months later, he asked for a divorce.
He didn’t cry.
He didn’t try to repair anything.
He simply said he wanted a different future.
“I can’t spend the rest of my life without children,” he told me.
I remember sitting across from him at the kitchen table.
“Are you sure this is what you want?”
He nodded.
“I’ve already made my decision.”
I signed the papers six weeks later.
Gwen called me afterward.
She sounded almost sympathetic.
“I know this is difficult, sweetheart. But perhaps it’s better this way. Russell deserves to become a father.”
I said nothing.
She continued:
“You’re still young. Maybe you’ll find someone who doesn’t need children.”
I ended the call.
For months, I struggled with guilt.
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