That’s worse, somehow.
A monster you can at least stop missing.
Chapter 4 — Four Years of Trying
We wanted a child.
Or I did, and Weston performed wanting one convincingly enough that I never doubted it — which, I’d come to understand, was the whole point.
Four years.
If you’ve never lived inside fertility treatment, I can only tell you that it becomes a second full-time job, one that pays only in hope and takes its wages in your body and your marriage.
There were appointments and injections and the particular cruelty of a calendar organized entirely around a possibility that kept not arriving.
There were mornings I gave myself shots with hands that had learned not to shake.
I remember one cycle in the third year that I let myself believe in more than the others.