Not the dramatic kind people notice. Not sobbing-on-the-bathroom-floor disappointment. Mine came in quieter forms. It came in the way I learned to look at a negative pregnancy test for only one second before throwing it away. It came in the way I kept a smile ready for baby showers and gender reveals and casual grocery-store run-ins with women resting protective hands on their swollen stomachs. It came in the way my husband, Evan, would say, “Maybe next month,” and I would nod as if hope were still something gentle instead of something with teeth.
Two years.
Two years of ovulation strips lined up in drawers like secret homework.
Two years of timed schedules that turned intimacy into logistics.
Two years of wondering whether there was something wrong with me and being too ashamed to say the fear out loud.
Every month became a private funeral for a child who had never existed.
I got good at hiding it. Women do. We call it maturity when really it’s just grief in decent clothing.
