There had been a time when that voice belonged to the man I trusted most.
Evan had once talked me through panic attacks after deployment.
He made tea when pain in my knees kept me awake.
He remembered which grocery-store cookies I bought when I had a bad week and pretended he had wanted them too.
He had promised that his mother would never come between us.
That promise lasted less than three years.
Evan and I had tried to have a baby for a long time.
At first, we remained practical.
We were healthy adults with demanding careers, and we believed patience would solve what planning could not.
Then months became years.
Every cycle carried a fresh list of instructions and another opportunity for disappointment.
I tracked temperatures, vitamins, appointments, symptoms, and ovulation windows with the precision of a military operation.
When my doctor suggested fertility testing, I agreed immediately.
