Chapter 1
The diagnosis that I couldn't have children haunted me for seven years.
During those seven years, Andrew Shaw would answer his mom's calls right in front of me. After every call, he'd sit there in silence. I understood everything, but I chose not to say anything.
The day we broke up, he cried, but I didn't. I was all cried out long before.
Not long after, Audrey Evans called me into her office. She danced around the topic for ages before finally blurting out, "My son will never be a father. You two are basically made for each other."
I wanted to laugh, but couldn't. So that was what a good match meant. It could sound downright cruel.
We got married, but living together felt like two cold stones side by side. Neither of us could warm the other.
Then came the day of the check-up. The doctor stared at the screen, paused for a moment, then asked my husband, Michael Evans, to come in.
He turned the monitor toward us and said calmly, "You're having twins. The nurse will help you get your prenatal records set up ASAP."
*****
That infertility diagnosis felt like a sentence.
It had been with me for seven years.
Andrew had been with me for seven years, too.
At first, he said it didn't matter. We had each other, and that was enough.
I believed him.
But then, his mom started calling more and more often.
He'd always step out onto the balcony to answer.
He'd close the door, and his voice would be muffled.
But I knew what was going on behind those calls.
It was always the same old story. Someone's son got married, or someone's wife had a baby.
And that someone was never me.
Every time he hung up, he'd walk back in from the balcony, looking completely drained, as if all the life had been sucked out of him.
He never said a word.
And I never asked.
We'd sit there in silence, the air between us so heavy, like hardened concrete.
I understood his struggle.
I understood his mom's urgency, too.
He was thirty, an only child, and already making a name for himself. How could he possibly not have kids? That wasn't an option.
I understood all of it, but that diagnosis was like a straitjacket, clamped down on my life, never letting me go.
We tried everything.
Medicine, and every folk remedy we could get our hands on.
When I forced down those bitter herbal brews that made me want to throw up, I didn't blink.
He stayed by my side, his eyes filled with pain for me, and a helplessness that only grew deeper.
His heartache for me was real.
His sense of powerlessness was real, too.
Even the strongest love gets worn down by disappointment, day after day.
Finally, in the autumn of our seventh year together, he broke up with me.
It happened in the little apartment we'd rented together.
Outside the window, the ginkgo leaves were golden and beautiful.
He said, "Clairie, I'm sorry."
Then he broke down and cried.
He was six feet tall, but in front of me, he broke down and cried like a little kid.
He said he couldn't take it anymore.
He said his mom was threatening to kill herself if he didn't do what she wanted.
He said he was getting married next month, to a girl his family had set him up with.
I didn't cry.
It was weird that I realized there wasn't a drop left in me.
Maybe after seven years, I'd already cried myself dry.
Or maybe, when I lived with a blade hanging over my head for so long, the moment it finally dropped, all I felt was relief.
I looked at him, completely calm.
"Got it," I said. "You don't have to apologize.
"I'm the one who dragged you down."
He cried harder, gripping my hand as if he never wanted to let go.
"Don't say that, Clairie. Please, don't say that," he choked out.
I gently pulled my hand away. "Andrew, I wish you happiness.
"I mean it."
I started packing up my things.
I didn't have much, and just one suitcase was enough.
He stood by the door, watching me, his eyes red and swollen.
I pulled my suitcase and walked past him.
I didn't look back.
As I closed the door, I heard him let out an anguished, strangled cry.
Maybe that was for the best.
Crying might help him feel better.
A week later, I got his wedding invitation in the mail.
It was almost painful to look at.
The bride's name was Vanessa Shaw. I'd never met her before.
She had a sugary smile in the picture.
They looked like the kind of couple everyone envies.
I tossed the invitation straight into the trash.
Then, I got a call from Audrey at work.
Audrey was our department head.
She was in her fifties, always serious, and hardly ever smiled.
But on the phone, her voice was surprisingly polite. "Claire, could you come to my office for a moment?"
My heart skipped a beat.
Did I screw up at work or something?
When I walked into her office, Audrey told me to have a seat and poured me a glass of water herself.
That made me more nervous.
She didn't bring up work at all. Instead, she started chatting about everyday stuff.
"How have you been lately? You look like you've lost a lot of weight," she said.
"Oh, it's nothing. I haven't been eating much lately," I replied, trying to brush it off.
"Did you and Andrew break up?" she suddenly asked.
I froze.
No one at work knew about my personal life.