When we couldn’t conceive naturally, we dove into the grueling world of fertility treatments. Doctor visits blurred into a haze of cold exam rooms, needles, and sterile walls. Those rooms became as familiar as my own bedroom.

My life revolved around blood tests, ultrasounds, and hormone shots that left me sore and drained. My arms turned into a map of bruises from the needles. Even mirrors became my enemy, showing a body I barely knew anymore.

Each appointment held a flicker of hope that this time would be different. But every time the doctor shook their head and said, “Not this month,” my heart cracked a little more. The silence in our house grew heavier with each failure.

The nights were the worst. Darkness amplified every pain I carried.