Not disappointment.

Not grief.

Punishment.

Seven years of fertility appointments moved through my body so fast I felt them more than remembered them. The first doctor with the laminated diagram.

The second clinic with the pale blue walls and the terrible coffee. The injections lined up in the refrigerator door beside the orange juice. The calendar marked with circles Connor eventually stopped asking about.

The mornings I woke before dawn to test and sat on the edge of the bathtub while one line stayed one line. The way he used to say we’d get through it.