The waiting room went completely quiet, and even the television mounted in the corner seemed to fade into the background.

Melinda stared intently at the floor, refusing to look at either of us. I kept my expression entirely neutral—not because I wasn’t angry, but because physicians learn emotional control early in their training. You can’t panic during medical emergencies.

You can’t lose your temper when people are counting on you. You can’t let your face become the loudest thing in the room. After enough years, that discipline becomes a natural habit.

Connor wasn’t finished. “A woman who can’t have children shouldn’t be surprised when a man finally builds a real family.”

There it was—the old blade he loved twisting into my heart. For almost seven years, we’d tried to have a family of our own.

Seven years of endless appointments, painful tests, expensive specialists, deep disappointment, crying in hospital parking lots, and driving home in absolute silence while rain or bright Indiana sunlight passed over the windshield. At least, that was how I remembered it. Back then, I truly believed we were suffering together. I didn’t know how horribly wrong I was.