They’d been trying to get pregnant. And when it didn’t happen right away, Austin started making comments. Little things at first, asking if she was tracking her cycle correctly, suggesting she needed to eat healthier, exercise more. When she got her period each month, she’d see this flash of disappointment in his eyes that he tried to hide behind concerned husband’s smiles.
By their second year of marriage, the trying had become mechanical, scheduled, joyless. Austin bought ovulation kits, tracked everything on apps, turned their bedroom into a fertility lab. The man who used to kiss her good morning now just asked if it was the right time when he looked at her. Then came the doctor appointments.
Month after month of tests, procedures, consultations, her body was poked, prodded, analyzed, and measured. Every test came back normal. But Austin insisted they keep looking for what was wrong with her because in his mind there had to be something wrong with her. The possibility that fertility issues might be on his side never entered his vocabulary.
She started taking fertility medications that made her sick with mood swings that Austin had no patience for. When she’d cry from the hormones, he’d snap at her about being too emotional and how stress was probably why she couldn’t get pregnant. He started working late more often, going out with friends, leaving her home alone with pregnancy forums and fertility apps.
The worst part was watching him around other people’s children. He’d light up with his nieces and nephews, posting pictures on social media with captions like, “Can’t wait for my own little ones.” His mother started making comments about how she was still waiting for grandchildren while looking directly at Amanda during family dinners.
By year three of their marriage, Austin had stopped pretending to be patient. He’d make jokes about her biological clock in front of their friends. He started talking about her fertility struggles to people without her permission, painting himself as the long-suffering husband dealing with a defective wife.
She became the problem he had to solve, the burden he carried. Then one night in November 2023, everything changed. She was in their bedroom injecting herself with another round of fertility hormones when Austin walked in and just stood there watching her. His face held this look she’d never seen before. Not frustration or disappointment, but something closer to disgust.
“You know what, Amanda?” he said, sitting on the edge of their bed. “I think we need to talk about other options.” She thought he meant adoption or maybe surrogacy. She was so desperate to save their marriage that she was ready to agree to anything. I’ve been thinking, he continued, maybe we should take a break from all this trying.
Maybe we should take a break from each other. The hormone injection fell from her hand onto the floor. The words, “Take a break from each other,” hit her like she’d been slapped. She stared at Austin, waiting for him to explain what he meant, hoping desperately that she’d misunderstood. “What are you saying?” she whispered, still kneeling on their bedroom floor next to the dropped syringe.
