For the first time in years, Ethan and I felt like a real family again. Like we were building something together, finally, after so long spent watching it fall apart.
The embryo transfer worked.
At first, we visited Claire together. We brought vitamins, groceries, and a pregnancy pillow I’d spent 40 minutes choosing online.
Claire laughed and shook her head. “You two are spoiling me.”
But a few weeks later, Ethan started going alone.
One afternoon, he kissed my forehead, grabbed his keys, and called back over his shoulder, “Sweetheart, Claire mentioned she might be running low on vitamins. I’ll bring her some.”
At first, we visited Claire together.
“Now?” I asked.
“It’ll only take an hour.”
The visits started happening more often. During the workday, late in the evenings, and on weekends.
One Saturday, I was standing at the stove stirring something when he rushed through the kitchen, already pulling on his jacket.
“Love, I’m going to check on Claire and the baby.”
The visits started happening more often.
“You just saw her two days ago,” I said.
He laughed, the way you laugh when someone says something a little absurd. And then he was out the door before I could even think about stepping away from the stove to go with him.
That kept happening.
Once I grabbed my coat and said, “Wait, I’ll come with you.”
Ethan stopped in the doorway. “You don’t have to.”
That stung.
“Wait, I’ll come with you.”
Sometimes he came back with little updates.
“She’s craving oranges.”
“Her back is bothering her.”
“The baby kicked today.”
I should have felt included by those updates, but mostly I just felt like someone receiving a postcard from a trip I wasn’t on.
And then there were the folders.
