My husband, Bruce, and I were married for 18 years.
For most of that time, I thought we were happy. We had a comfortable house, steady jobs, shared routines, and the kind of marriage people praised at dinner parties.
“You two are solid,” my sister used to say. “You’re one of the lucky ones.”
I believed her.
The only shadow over our marriage was the child we never had.
At first, Bruce and I told ourselves there was time. Then one year became three. Three became six. After that, every birthday felt like a reminder of something my body had failed to do.