I thought this would be straightforward.

We’d try, laugh at the timing apps, and navigate the awkwardness of scheduling together. We’d patiently wait a month, maybe two, and soon enough, we’d be picking out baby names and bickering over nursery colors.

But as the months passed, they began to stack up. And still, nothing happened.

Initially, we assigned blame…stress, travel, even the universe’s peculiar sense of humor. Yet, somewhere around month ten, the laughter dwindled. The silence that filled the gaps between us became a third presence in the room, heavy and palpable.

She was the first to visit the clinic. They assured her she was fine, healthy, everything functioning as it should. Then it was my turn.

I tried to lighten the mood on the way to the clinic, joking about the little cup and the sterile environment that felt too clinical. Still, beneath it all, I felt a crack forming just below my ribs.

When the results arrived, they struck like a verdict: low count, low motility, low everything. I barely understood half of it; I just knew something within me had failed. The word echoed relentlessly in my mind: failed.

The doctor spoke gently, using terms like “treatable,” “options,” and “not uncommon,” but all I heard was the inescapable truth: I couldn’t give her what she wanted most.

I could see it in her eyes too…not anger or blame, just a profound grief that we shared, yet I felt it was mine to bear.

I began to avoid the subject, distancing myself from intimacy. It wasn’t that I didn’t love her, but I felt defective; a reminder that something was missing.

Every negative test thereafter felt like mourning, not just for the child we didn’t have, but for the version of myself I’d envisioned: the dad, the provider, the miracle.