I’m thirty-nine years old, and for: A :long time I believed the worst day of my life was the night my husband left me because I was pregnant with a daughter.

Looking back now, that was probably the night my real life finally began.

Michael and I tried to have a baby for seven years.

Seven years of fertility appointments, hormone injections, temperature charts, and medical vocabulary I never wanted to learn. Seven years of hope that arrived quietly at the start of every cycle and dissolved just as quietly at the end of it. Infertility doesn’t just break your heart in one clean moment — it changes the atmosphere of a marriage. Every month begins to feel like a verdict being handed down.