I thought my marriage was solid. Quiet. Happy.
Seven years of porch swings, morning coffee, and whispered dreams about “someday” having kids.

Then I had surgery. A hysterectomy.
Complications meant I would never carry children.

I was grieving, but Daniel said the right things.
“We’ll get through this together. It’s us that matters.”

I believed him.

Three days after, weak and dizzy, I shuffled into the kitchen.
I expected kindness. Maybe a Post-it heart on my mug, the way he used to.

Continues…