I remember she glanced toward the hallway when she said it. Toward where Ben was on the phone in his office. Her face did something strange. Something tight and sad.
I didn’t understand it. Not then.
The fifth year, we started talking about IVF.
We sat with a financial counselor at the fertility clinic, and she slid a piece of paper across the desk with a number on it that made my stomach drop.
“That’s per round,” she said gently.
Ben stared at the paper for a long time.“We can refinance the house,” I said.
“Claire.”
“We can. My dad said he’d help. And my savings—”
“Claire.” He put his hand over mine. “Let’s just… give it one more year. Naturally. Okay? Just one more year. And if nothing happens, we’ll do it. I promise.”
I didn’t understand why he was hesitating. He wanted a baby as much as I did. I knew he did. I saw the way he looked at kids in the grocery store. I saw him at his cousin’s barbecue, holding his newborn nephew like the baby was made of glass, with this look on his face like his heart was breaking.
