Ethan and I had been married for 21 years, and for most of that time, we struggled with infertility. The years were marked by hope, heartbreak, and relentless determination. In the beginning, Ethan was supportive, attending doctor’s appointments and holding my hand through treatments. But as the years dragged on, he changed. His late nights at work became more frequent, his phone calls more secretive, and his support turned into indifference.

I convinced myself his behavior was due to the strain of our situation. Infertility tests even the strongest of marriages, I thought. But deep down, something felt off. His murmured conversations—“I’ll call you later”—and quick hang-ups when I entered the room gnawed at me. Still, I chose to ignore the signs, pouring all my energy into one last attempt to have a child.

When I turned 40, against all odds, I got pregnant. Holding the positive test, I felt a wave of joy and disbelief. “Ethan, we did it! I’m pregnant,” I told him, expecting excitement. Instead, his response was flat: “That’s… great.” I brushed it off, convincing myself he was in shock.