Chapter 25
Megan
The smell of sanitizer mixed with floral air freshener hits me first when I walk into the doctor’s office. It’s clean and quiet, with soft music playing overhead and a row of framed baby photos lining the wall—smiling parents, tiny hands, pink hospital hats.
It used to make me smile. Now I mostly try not to look.
I check in at the front desk and take a seat in the waiting room.
There’s a woman across from me, clearly pregnant, resting a hand on her belly while she scrolls on her phone.
Another flips through a parenting magazine, a baby car seat by her feet.
I fold my hands in my lap and focus on a tiny scuff on the floor instead.
The nurse calls my name after a few minutes. “Megan? Come on back.”
She’s cheerful, and I do my best to match her energy. She leads me down the hallway, chatting about the weather, how warm it’s been for middle of April. I nod along, answering when I need to, until we step into the exam room.
“Go ahead and undress from the waist down, and the doctor will be in soon,” she says kindly before closing the door behind her.
I do as told, slipping into the robe, climbing up onto the crinkly white paper, and laying the drape across my lap. I’ve been doing this for years. It’s routine. Yearly, quick, and easy. But this time feels different. Because this time I have questions.
When the doctor comes in, she greets me with that practiced friendly-yet-professional smile.
“How have you been?” she asks, pulling up my chart on the computer.
“Good.” I pause. “Mostly.”
She looks up with that knowing smile. “Mostly?”
I tuck my hands under the paper on my lap. “Well, my husband and I have been trying for a baby since last summer—so, nine months now—and I’m starting to think something’s wrong with me.”
Her expression softens immediately. “Are your cycles regular?”
“Pretty much. Give or take a few days.”
“And you’ve been tracking ovulation?”
“Yeah. Religiously.”
She nods thoughtfully and types something into the computer. “Alright. So, nine months of trying is still within the normal range actually. We don’t start to worry until it’s been a full year of actively trying.”
I nod, but that doesn’t make me feel better. She’s telling me I have to suffer three more months before they want to do anything to help?
She smiles kindly. “I know that’s not what you want to hear. If it doesn’t happen by then, we can run some tests, check hormone levels, ovulation patterns, things like that. But for now, just keep doing what you’re doing.”
Her tone is gentle, but it still doesn’t make me feel better. I don’t know why part of me expected to show up here today and be told some top secret information in regard to conceiving.
“Okay” is all I manage.
She nods. “You’re doing everything you can, Megan. Don’t lose hope, alright?”
I force a smile, because sitting here and discussing it more with her obviously won’t help. “I won’t.”
Within ten minutes the exam is done and I’m dressed again, checking out at the front desk with my next appointment card in hand for next year. My mind automatically wanders to a year from now.
Where will we be by then? Will I be a mom? Or at least…will I be expecting? It’s possible. All of it is still possible.
When I step outside, the bright afternoon sun nearly blinds me. Cars glide past on the main road, the air smelling faintly like cut grass and asphalt. I make it to my car and sit for a moment before starting it.
We don’t start to worry until it’s been a full year of actively trying, plays on a loop in my head.
I think about how Mason always says, We have to let God do His thing.
We have to trust him. And I know he’s right.
I do. But right now, sitting here in the quiet of the car, it just feels like the tunnel I’m looking down keeps getting longer, and I don’t like that.
I want to see a light, a flicker. Anything.
I grip the steering wheel tighter as I pull into my parents’ driveway, the familiar split-level house looking exactly the same as it always does.
I don’t have to be anywhere. Mason’s working late. And I’m not in a rush to go home to an empty house where all I’ll do is sit on the couch and spiral.
I grab my purse and head inside.
“Mom?” I call out as I step through the door.
“Down here!”
I head down the stairs to the lower level where she’s folding laundry on the couch, a basket of towels at her feet and the TV playing some home renovation show in the background.
“Hey.” She smiles, setting down the towel she’s folding and standing to hug me. She studies me for a second, her smile fading slightly. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just tired.”
“How’s Mason?”
“Good. Busy. Working a lot.”
She nods, folding another towel. I can tell she’s waiting for me to say more, but I don’t know what else to say.
“How was your appointment?” she asks casually, not looking up from the laundry.
I tense. “How’d you know I had one?”
“You mentioned it last week.” She glances at me.
I nod, swallowing hard. “Oh. Right.”
She pauses, studying my face. “Megan.”
“What?”
“You’re not a very good liar.”
My throat tightens.
“What’s going on?” she asks gently, setting the towel aside and turning toward me fully.
I take a shaky breath. “We’ve been trying to get pregnant. For nine months,” I continue, my voice barely above a whisper. “And it’s not happening.”
Her expression softens immediately. “Oh, honey.”
“I asked the doctor about it today,” I say, blinking back tears, “and she said we shouldn’t worry until it’s been a full year.” I laugh bitterly. “A full year, Mom. Like nine months of this isn’t already enough.”
She reaches over and takes my hand, squeezing it gently. “I’m so sorry, Meg.”
“I just don’t understand.” My voice cracks.
“Everyone else makes it look so easy. Addison got pregnant right away. Ella too. Karissa didn’t even want kids, I don’t think.” I wipe at my cheek. “So why is it so hard for us?”
Mom doesn’t answer right away. She just sits there, holding my hand, her thumb tracing slow circles over my knuckles.
“Can I tell you something?” she finally says.
I look up at her. “What?”
She takes a deep breath, like she’s weighing whether to say it out loud. “You know, you weren’t my first pregnancy.”
I blink. “What?”
“I had three miscarriages before I had you.”
The words hit me like a punch to the chest.
“What? I didn’t know that.” Tears burn in my eyes.
“I know.” She looks down at our hands. “I never talked about it. Your dad and I…we just kept it private. It was too painful to share.”
“When?” I ask, my voice barely there.
“The first one was pretty soon after we got married. I didn’t even know I was pregnant until I wasn’t anymore.
” Her voice is steady, but there’s a tremor underneath.
“The second one was a few months later. That one I knew about. I was twelve weeks. We had just told people. And then…” She trails off, shaking her head.
My chest aches. “Mom.”
“The third one was the hardest,” she continues quietly. “Because, by then, I’d started to believe it was never going to happen. That maybe I just wasn’t meant to be a mother.”
Tears burn in my eyes. “And then how long until you had me?”
“About one and a half years later.” She smiles, but it’s sad. “And you were worth every second of the wait.”
I swipe at my cheeks, trying to hold it together. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “It’s not exactly something you bring up over dinner. And by the time you were old enough to understand, it felt…behind me. Like something that happened to someone else.”
We sit in silence for a moment, and I try to process.
“Is that why I’m an only child?” I ask quietly.
She nods. “We tried for a few more years after you were born. But it never happened again. And eventually, we just…accepted it. Decided you were enough.”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Don’t be.” She squeezes my hand. “You were more than enough, Megan. You always have been.”
I lean my head against her shoulder, and she wraps her arm around me, holding me close like I’m a little kid again.
“It’s going to happen for you,” she says softly. “I don’t know when. And I don’t know how. But I truly think it will.”
“What if it doesn’t?” I whisper.
She pulls back just enough to look at me. “There are options. IVF, things like that.”
I nod slowly, letting her words sink in.
“I know it’s overwhelming to think about,” she continues.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I know.”
She brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “Have you and Mason talked about any of that?”
“Not really.” I shake my head. “We’ve just been…trying. And hoping. And praying.”
“That’s good,” she says gently. “But at some point, you might need to have a conversation about what comes next. Just so you’re both on the same page.”
I nod, even though the thought of that conversation feels heavy.
“You’ll figure it out,” she says, pulling me back into a hug. “You and Mason are a team. And whatever happens, you’ll get through it together.”
I stay for another hour, talking about lighter things—school, Mason’s work, plans for the summer.
By the time I leave, the sun is starting to dip lower in the sky, and as I drive home, I can’t stop thinking about fertility clinics. About IVF. About adoption. And what that would look like for us.
By the time I pull into our driveway, it’s almost six. Mason’s truck isn’t there yet. I head inside, drop my purse on the counter, and kick off my shoes by the door. The house is too quiet.
I pour myself a glass of wine and sink onto the couch, pulling my laptop onto my lap.
For a minute, I just stare at the screen. Then I open a new tab and type: fertility clinics near me.
The results flood the screen—clinics in Fargo, Grand Forks, even one in Bismarck. Each one has glossy photos of smiling couples holding babies, testimonials about “miracles” and “answered prayers.”
I click on the first one.
Services Offered:
? Intrauterine Insemination (IUI)
? In Vitro Fertilization (IVF)
? Egg Freezing
? Donor Options
I scroll through the pages, reading about success rates and treatment plans and costs that make my stomach turn.
Fifteen thousand for one round of IVF. Maybe more if it doesn’t work the first time. But if it works…
I open another tab. Then another. Each clinic says basically the same thing: We can help. But it’s expensive. And there are no guarantees.
Still, it’s something. It’s a step forward. It’s not just sitting around waiting and hoping.
I’m so focused on the screen, scrolling through testimonials and success rates, that I don’t even hear that Mason’s come home until he’s standing a few feet away, uniform and all. He looks exhausted.
“Hey,” he says, his voice warm. “What are you looking at?”
“Hey.” I turn the laptop toward him, he sits. “Fertility clinics.”
His smile fades instantly. “What?”
“I went to see my mom today,” I explain, setting the laptop on the coffee table. “And I told her about us trying, and she told me she had three miscarriages before she had me.”
Mason’s expression softens. “I didn’t know that.”
“Neither did I.” I shake my head. “But she reminded me that there are other options. So I just thought about looking into it.”
He goes still, his jaw tightening just slightly.
“I know it’s expensive,” I continue quickly, gesturing to the laptop. “And I know it’s a lot to think about. But Mason, what if this is the answer? What if this is how we’re supposed to have a baby?”
“Megan—”
“Just look at the website,” I urge, pulling the laptop back toward me and clicking on one of the clinic pages. “They have really high success rates. And they offer payment plans. We could—”
“I don’t want to do that.”
His words are quiet, but they land like a brick.
I freeze, my fingers still hovering over the keyboard. “What?”
“I don’t want to do IVF.” He crosses his arms, his expression guarded. “Or any of that stuff.”
I stare at him, confused. “Why not?”
“Because it’s…” He hesitates, like he’s trying to find the right words. “It’s not natural, Meg.”
“Not natural?” I repeat slowly, my chest tightening.
“You know what I mean.”
“No, actually, I don’t.” I stare up at him. “What’s not natural about wanting a baby so badly that you’re willing to do whatever it takes?”
“Because that’s not how it’s supposed to work,” he says, his voice firm. “We’re supposed to trust God’s timing. Not force it with science and doctors and—”
“Science and doctors that God created,” I interrupt, my voice rising. “Why is it okay to pray for a miracle but not okay to look into help when it’s an option?”
He doesn’t answer, just stares down at his hands together.
“I can’t believe you,” I whisper, shutting the computer and standing. “You’re acting like IVF is some kind of sin.”
“I didn’t say that.” He shakes his head.
“You might as well have.” My voice cracks. “Mason, I thought we’d be on the same page.”
“We are,” he insists. “But I have a line, Meg, and that’s it.”
“A line?” I step closer, anger and hurt swirling together in my chest. “So what happens if we hit a year and nothing’s changed? What then?”
He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Then we keep praying. We keep trusting. And if it comes to it…I’d rather adopt.”
The words hit me like a slap.
“Adopt,” I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah.”
“So you’d rather raise someone else’s baby than do everything we can to have our own?”
His expression hardens. “That’s rude, Megan.”
“Why?” Tears stream down my face now. “Because I’m selfish for wanting our own flesh and blood? That’s better than giving up!”
“I haven’t given up,” he says firmly, standing now. “I’m just telling you how I feel. That I don’t think IVF is the answer.”
“Then what is the answer?” I demand, my voice breaking. “Because I’m drowning here, and you’re telling me the one thing that might help is off the table?”
“We wait,” he says, his tone steady but strained. “We trust God. We—”
“I am trusting God!” I shout, my hands shaking. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t also get help!”
He doesn’t respond. He just stands there, arms crossed, jaw tight. And in this moment, I realize something that makes my chest ache. We’re not on the same page. We’re not even in the same book.
I grab my laptop, walk past him, and head to our room.
“Where you going?” he asks, his voice calmer now.
“I need space,” I snap.
And he doesn’t follow.
I sit on the edge of our bed, eyes closed but still shedding tears, and I breathe, slowly, in and out.
Downstairs, I hear the faint sound of Mason moving around—opening the fridge, closing a cabinet, turning on the TV.
Normal sounds. Like we didn’t just have the biggest fight in our marriage so far.
I press my palms into my eyes. His words play over and over in my head, about adopting before anything else, and each time they sting a little more.
And I don’t know how to come back from that.