When we first got married, we both really wanted children. I was excited, of course, but my husband—who has always loved kids—was absolutely desperate for them. We’d spend hours dreaming about the future, talking about all the things we’d do once the baby arrived. For a while, we just let nature take its course, but it wasn’t long before we started fertility treatments. That’s when we were hit with a reality that was almost too much to handle.
We had promised each other that even without children, we’d spend our lives together. I was determined to make it work. But ever since I found out about my husband’s infertility, something felt… off. For so long, sex had been about “trying for a baby.” Once I knew there was no hope for a child at the end of it, intimacy started to feel hollow, and I hated myself for feeling that way. Every single time, my husband would apologize. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Hearing that day after day made me lose sight of why we were even being intimate in the first place, and it eventually exploded into a fight.
When I told my husband, who was suffering so much, that I’d stay by his side forever, I meant it. But deep down, I still hadn’t made peace with not having children. I couldn’t stop asking, “Why us?” I know sex isn’t just for procreation, but I just couldn’t get my heart to follow suit. He wasn’t the jerk—I was. I couldn’t give up on having kids, yet I was too cowardly to let him go, all while claiming it was “for his sake.” He called me out on exactly what I was feeling, and in the heat of the moment, I snapped and said something horrible. I pulled the covers over my head and sobbed, trying to stifle the sound.