All I could see was a small exam room from years ago. A plastic chair. A box of tissues. Connor sitting beside me with his arms crossed while a specialist gently explained that our last attempt had failed.
Again.
I remembered apologizing.
That was the part that still made me ache. Not the injections, not the surgeries, not the hope that arrived every month dressed as fear.
I remembered apologizing to Connor because I thought my body had made him unhappy.
“What clinic records?” Connor demanded.
Kenneth’s mouth tightened. “This is not the place.”
Connor stepped closer. “You are not talking about my family like this.”
His family.
The word landed exactly where he meant it to.
I felt the sting, but it was duller than it once would have been. A year earlier, that sentence might have opened something in me. Now it only revealed him more clearly.
