My tubes were clear. My hormones were normal. My eggs were fine.
“Has your husband been tested?” Dr. Mendez asked, flipping through my file.
“I’ll ask him,” I said.
That night, at dinner, I brought it up. Ben was cutting his chicken. He stopped for half a second. Just half a second. I didn’t think anything of it then.
“I already did,” he said. “Last spring. I didn’t want to worry you. Everything came back fine.”
“You did? Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugged and smiled. “Because I knew it would be fine. And it was. It’s not me, babe. And it’s not you either. It’s just timing.”
I believed him. Why wouldn’t I? He was Ben. He was the man who left notes in my lunch bag. The man who once drove forty minutes in a snowstorm because I mentioned I was craving a specific kind of donut. He didn’t lie to me. Ben didn’t lie.
