So, there we were again today in our old, familiar positions. Me curled up in a ball on the bed, my body wracking with sobs and dry heaves while R hands me Kleenex and wraps his arms around me.
At this point, he doesn’t even bother to try words of comfort, because he simply knows that none exist.
Today marks the two-year anniversary of our first night trying to conceive. (Too much information, I know.) We were so happy, we were so sure parenthood was right around the corner. We were so stupid.
I consoled myself today with the thought that even though we desperately want a child, two years isn’t that long. After all, many couples have been trying a lot longer.
Then I opened the letter from my best friend. She got married four months ago. Turns out she’s now three months pregnant.
Ain’t life grand?
Broken Things
7 years ago