When her first boyfriend broke her heart, she crawled into my bed, crying. I stayed up all night with her, distracting her with terrible rom-coms and microwave popcorn.
We even had a silly tradition — every Sunday morning, no matter how busy life got, we’d text each other: “You alive?”
Even as adults, when life became messy, we were always each other’s person.
And that’s what made everything hurt so much more.
Ryan and I wanted a family.
Desperately.
But after a year of trying — and more fertility appointments than I can count — we were given the truth.
“The chances of you carrying a baby are very low,” the doctor said. “Not impossible… but statistically unlikely.”
Those words still echo in my head sometimes. Like my body was a promise I couldn’t keep.
Ryan held my hand during the appointment. When the doctor left, I broke down completely.
“I’m so sorry,” I sobbed. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Hey… look at me,” he said gently, lifting my chin. “This doesn’t change anything. We’ll adopt. We’ll foster. Hell, we’ll get ten cats if we have to. But I’m not going anywhere.”
That night, I cried in his arms. He cupped my face and said, “We’ll figure it out. I don’t love you because you can give me a baby.”
And I believed him.
God… I really believed him.
