The Longest Wait
Summary: After months of hope, heartbreak, and endless doctor’s appointments, you and Glen find yourselves caught in the painful cycle of infertility. Your marriage has been tested, replaced by schedules, procedures, and pressure that leaves you both drained. Tender, emotional, and deeply intimate, this story is about love that endures through the hardest battles and the joy that comes after the waiting.
Warnings: This one is VERY heavy. Infertility struggles (doctor visits, failed cycles, medical details around fertility treatments,) Depression (feelings of inadequacy, hopelessness, and despair), Anxiety and fear of pregnancy loss, Medical settings (ultrasounds, hospital delivery scene). There’s probably some strong language.
Word Count: 12,245
Author's Note: Whew. This one was a hard one to write. I hope you enjoy this one, but understand that it may be an uncomfortable read. This one was a little more personal to me than some of the other things I've written so I'm hoping I was able to really capture some of the feelings that come with TTC. Thank you all for taking the time to read it.
MONTH 1
It started out simple. Easy. Natural.
You and Glen got married on a sun drenched Saturday afternoon in the Texas Hill Country surrounded by family, friends, and so much laughter your cheeks ached by the time the night ended. Your dress was off within seconds of you and Glen making it to the honeymoon suite.
Starting a family was something you had both talked about with excitement. There was no question that it would happen. Glen had joked about it at the reception and told one of the groomsmen that ya’ll would probably have a baby on the way before the ink dried on the marriage license.
And you believed him.
Glen was home the first few weeks after the wedding, and you made the most of it. Slow mornings in bed. Nights that melted into tangled sheets. You didn’t say it out loud, but you let yourself believe it would happen just like that.
When your period came, you were disappointed, sure. But it wasn’t devastating. You laughed it off with a shrug.
“Guess we just have to keep practicing,” Glen had teased, pressing a kiss to your temple.
MONTH 2
The second month, you got a little more serious. You downloaded an app to help with tracking your cycle. You bought a pack of ovulation and pregnancy tests and stuffed them in the bathroom drawer. Glen was gone for part of your fertile window due to his filming schedule, but he flew back in time for the last day.
Two weeks later you woke up before sunrise and peed on a stick with shaking hands. You watched the single line appear and waited, heart pounding, for a second one that never came.
You didn’t cry that time. Just climbed back into bed and pressed your face into Glen’s pillow, and told yourself that next month maybe a third time would be the charm. You hadn’t told Glen you had taken a test that morning. You didn’t want to hear that tone in his voice again, the one that was equal parts hope and disappointment.
MONTH 3
By the next month, the excitement had thinned. It wasn’t gone completely, it was just quieter. You felt it a little more each time you logged another thing in the app. You felt it each time you peed on another ovulation strip and held it up to the light, squinting at the faint lines.
When your period came again, you sat on the bathroom floor and cried. That was the first time you really felt the light of hope inside you start to flicker.
Glen got home later that night. It was just for a weekend. Just 48 hours home before he was off to do PR ahead of a movie release. When you climbed into bed that night, you turned away from him. Glen reached for you without hesitation.
He pulled you against his chest, his arm around your waist, and whispered, “It’s going to be okay.”
You nodded. You wanted to believe him.
MONTH 6
By month six, the hope had turned into questions. Quiet ones. The kind you kept to yourself and never mentioned to Glen. Things like What if something’s wrong? What if it’s me? What if I can’t give him a baby?
You called your OBGYN the next morning to set up an appointment. And that’s when things stopped feeling simple.
The waiting room smelled like antiseptic, and you hated how much it made your stomach turn. Glen sat beside you, his knee bouncing. He was trying to hide it, scrolling through texts and emails on his phone, but you could tell he was just as anxious. He’d flown in late the night before, had barely slept, and insisted on coming with you even though you told him he didn’t have to.
The appointment was routine, and filled with the kind of conversation that didn’t quite match the emotion lodged in your throat. You explained your cycles, the app you used, the ovulation tests, all of it. You told her you’d been trying for six months, and that it was starting to feel off.
She nodded as you spoke, listening to what you were saying. When she did speak her voice was calm. “It’s normal for it to take some time. Even the healthiest couples can take up to a year.”
You knew that. You’d read the same sentence online during your research a dozen times. It didn’t make it feel better.
She gave you suggestions. Continue tracking your cycle, monitor your luteal phase, cut back on caffeine, maybe start prenatal vitamins if you haven't already. Glen asked a few questions of his own, trying to understand as best he could.
But when you asked about next steps…tests to make sure nothing was wrong, fertility options etc, the doctor offered a gentle smile and said, “We don’t typically start those conversations until it’s been a full year of trying.”
You nodded. You understood. But something about that felt like being sent home with a pat on the head and a “come back later.”
When the appointment ended, Glen reached for your hand and laced your fingers with his.
“You okay?” He asked once you were back in the car.
You shrugged, “I know it’s not her fault. It just…sucks.”
Glen gave a soft hum and squeezed your hand. “We’ll keep trying.”
You leaned your head against the window, eyes stinging. Six months already felt like a lifetime.
MONTH 7
By the seventh month, you were logging every possible piece of data into your cycle tracking app. Basal body temperature. Vaginal discharge. Every twinge of discomfort. Every flutter of hope. You’d start setting alarms to test at the same time each day during your ovulation window so you could try to make the most of the small window that you could. You had a drawer in the bathroom that looked like a miniature pharmacy: test strips, cups, vitamins, supplements with names you’d find on internet forums at 2 a.m.
It had become routine. An obsessive, meticulous routine.
And Glen was trying his best to keep up. If he was home during your fertile window, he cleared as much of his schedule as he could. No questions asked. If he was filming or doing press, he flew you to him. No matter where he was, whether it was New York, Atlanta, or London, he made sure you were together when it mastered.
You’d kiss him before you even got through the terminal doors, feeling both grateful and guilty all at once. Because you knew what the next few days would be filled with.
He never made you feel like it was a burden, even when the flights were last minute and expensive. Even when he was running on four hours of sleep and still kissed you like nothing else mattered.
But it wasn’t romantic anymore. Not the way it used to be.
Sex became a task. A chore. Planned and scheduled. Twice a day. More if possible. Like a chore. You weren’t supposed to call it that, but you both knew.
Sometimes when the app told you it was the perfect day–when your LH surge was strong and your ovulation window was open–you initiated things even when your heart wasn’t in it. Glen would pull you close, his hands warm, his mouth soft against your skin, but you weren’t always fully present. You were thinking about timing and positioning.
Sometimes, you both tried to fake it. You’d try to make it feel like it used to. Sometimes you’d turn the lights down. Sometimes you played your favorite bedroom playlist. Glen cracked jokes and made faces and tried to make you laugh until you did.
One night, you just…couldn’t. You were tired. Cramping. Emotionally spent. You told Glen you weren’t in the mood, and he nodded. He didn’t push. He pulled you into his arms anyway and whispered, “we don’t have to, baby. Not if it hurts.”
But later, when you lay awake beside him, you stared at the ceiling and thought about how you’d wasted a day. A chance.
The guilt was relentless.
MONTHS 7-9
You didn’t tell Glen every time you took a pregnancy test. You couldn’t. You didn’t want him to have to go through what you were going through. You didn’t want him to have to deal with the disappointment on top of everything he already dealt with.
You started testing earlier, even when you told yourself you wouldn’t. Five days before your expected period, sometimes you'd take a second one closer to your expected period. Your logic was flimsy at best. “I just want to know.” But really, it was the need to either grieve or hope. Sitting in the not knowing during those two weeks was the worst part.
You learned to cry quietly. You learned which floorboards in the bedroom creaked, and which drawers didn’t squeak so you wouldn’t wake him.
One morning, you sat on the cold tile floor of the bathroom. The pregnancy test was between your knees. Your arms were wrapped around your shins. Another negative. Another stupid pink line by itself.
You didn’t sob in despair. You didn’t throw anything in anger. You just let the tears slide down your cheeks silently. The kind of tears that made your chest ache because they never quite made it to a full cry. They just…leaked out of you.
You didn’t notice the bathroom door creak open until you heard Glen’s voice, soft and groggy from sleep.
“Babe?”
You wiped your face with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, and turned your head toward him, already forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you whispered.
Glen stepped inside, crouched down in front of you, and rested his hands on your knees.
“You didn’t, I was getting up for a quick run.” He said. He glanced down at the test beside you on the floor, and something shifted behind his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
You shrugged as if it was nothing, but the tears kept coming. He wrapped you in his arms, pulling you into his chest. You let your face press against his bare shoulder, breathing in the scent of him.
“It’s not your fault,” he whispered. “It’s not your fault, baby.”
But the guilt was already rooted so deep you didn’t know how to believe him anymore.
MONTHS 10-12
By month ten, the weight had started pressing cracks into the foundation of your relationship. It was subtle. Small things.
You got more irritable more often. You snapped at Glen over little things you used to not care about. When he forgot to take the trash out. Or when he’d throw his laundry on the floor near the hamper instead of in it. You’d roll your eyes when he forgot to check the calendar you had sent him.
You knew he was busy. He was filming and had press scheduling going on. Scripts to read and phone calls to make.
He was trying. You knew he was. But sometimes it felt like trying wasn’t enough.
The first big fight was small. Barely a fight at all. You had just arrived in Atlanta. It was another last minute trip. Your ovulation tracker had given you a peak day a few days earlier than you planned and Glen wasn’t going to be able to make it home. But like always he booked you a flight so you could come to him.
You were tired. You didn’t really want to get on another plane to go to another city to try again when you didn’t know if it would even work this month.
He noticed you were a little grumpy. He meant well by it. You knew that. He said, “You don’t have to push yourself this hard every time.”
And that was all it took for you to snap.
“Of course I have to. What do you think we’ve been doing for the last ten months, Glen? Hoping? Guessing? Winging it?”
His jaw tightened as he put his hands on his hips and looked at you. “That’s not what I said.”
“I’m just…I’m doing everything I can, okay? Everything. And it’s still not enough.”
Glen’s voice was quiet as he said, “No one’s saying you’re not.”
You turned away, hands trembling. The words fell before you could stop them. “Maybe it would be easier if I wasn’t broken.”
The silence that followed was immediate. You felt the shift in the air. Glen’s voice was low but firm when he finally said something.
“Don’t say that about yourself.”
You didn’t move. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t look at him as you wrapped your arms around yourself. He crossed the room, and stopped in front of you. He took your hands gently.
“Look at me.”
You took a deep breath before doing so.
“We’re doing this together,” he said. “And I don’t give a damn what the tests say or what an app tells us. This is our journey. Not just yours. So stop carrying it like it’s only your burden to bear.”
The tears spilled without permission. You sank into him, and he caught you. His arms wrapping tight around you as your chest heaved against his. All the months you’d been trying to stay strong cracked open in one long, messy exhale.
“I’m tired,” you whispered. “I don’t know how much more of this I can do.”
“I know,” Glen murmured. “I know, baby.”
He didn’t say much else. Just held you until your tears began to subside.
MONTH 13
It had been just over a year from when you and Glen started trying when you found yourself in the doctor’s office again. Your fingers were locked so tightly in your lap, and you were surprised your knuckles weren’t bruising.
Glen was by your side. One hand resting on your knee, the other rested on top of your clasped hands. His thumb brushed over your skin in slow, steady circles. He didn’t speak much. Just listened, his face unreadable in that thoughtful way he got when he didn’t want to miss a single word of what was being said.
The doctor was kind, but this time there was less reassurance. Fewer smiles. She didn’t say things like “you’re still young” or “these things take time.”
No, this time she pulled up charts and forms and protocols. Bloodwork orders. Vaginal swabs. Hormone panels. Ultrasounds to check ovarian function. You agreed to everything.
Glen did too. The doctor handed him a cup discreetly, her voice clinical as she explained what she would need him to do so that his semen could be tested as well. She had given him a smile and said “We just want to make sure we’re not missing anything.”
Glen nodded, but his jaw was tighter than before. You gave his hand a gentle squeeze as you both stood to leave after they had collected and run all the tests they needed to.
That night neither of you said much. You sat curled up on the couch while Glen quietly made dinner. Both of you were too emotionally exhausted as neither of you said out loud what both of you were thinking: What if we’re not enough on our own?
The results came a week later.
You sat on the paper lined exam table, gown open in the front, fingers twisting the edge of the paper blanket over your lap as the doctor scrolled through your chart on the monitor. Glen was beside you, his knee bouncing slightly, the only outward sign that he was nervous. You were grateful for the silent strength of his hand around yours. You needed it more than you wanted to admit.
“Your hormone levels came back slightly low,” the doctor said gently. “It’s not catastrophic. Not impossible. Just…not ideal.”
You barely breathed. She turned from the screen to meet your eyes.
“You’re not ovulating consistently. It’s more common than people think. But it doesn’t mean you can’t get pregnant. It just means your body needs some help.”
Your body. The problem was your body.
She moved on, explaining the treatment plan. “We’ll start with Letrozole. You’ll take it on days three through seven of your cycle. Then come in mid cycle for an ultrasound to monitor follicular development. We’ll time intercourse around your most fertile window. Track progress. Adjust as needed.
You nodded, trying to focus on the logistics instead of the gnawing ache in your chest.
Glen asked a question about the timing of the intercourse, how exact it had to be, etc. And then about the medication she was prescribing, side effects, that sort of thing.
You tried to listen, but your mind was already spiraling.
You had failed. Month after month of tracking and tests and two week waist, and it was you.
Glen’s results had come back the day before. Normal. Healthy. Excellent progressive motility. Great numbers across the board, really. Of course he was fine. The man who gave everything his all. The man who would be an incredible father. You knew that from the way he held your niece for hours at Christmas as she slept without complaint. And you saw it in the way he was with his own niece and nephews.
And now…you couldn’t give him the one thing he wanted most. A child.
You squeezed his hand tighter, afraid if you didn’t, you’d fall apart.
The doctor sent your prescription to the pharmacy to be picked up, and walked you through the plan once more. You again nodded like you were okay. Like everything made sense. Like this didn’t feel like your worst fear coming true.
As you walked to the car, you stayed quiet. Glen didn’t push you to talk. He opened your door, and let his hand brush your back. He waited until you were buckled before he spoke.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said softly.
You nodded again, still not trusting your voice to speak.
It wasn’t until you were home, in the bathroom, the prescription bottle sitting on the counter, that the damn broke. You sank to the floor, knees pulled to your chest, and let yourself cry.
This wasn’t how this was supposed to be. Having a baby wasn’t supposed to be calendars and pills and scans. It was supposed to be two people who love each other bringing a child into the world.
And you let yourself cry for the guilt that crept in every time Glen looked at you like you were enough, even when you felt anything but.
That night you stood in front of the mirror, swallowing the first little white pill on day three of your cycle. You told yourself this was the first step.
And for the first time in months, something bloomed in your chest that you hadn’t let yourself feel in a while.
Hope.
* * * *
That first medicated cycle, you followed the instructions exactly. Took the tiny white pill the same time each day with a full glass of water.
You didn’t expect much in the way of symptoms.
By the second day you were nauseous.
By the fourth, your cramps were worse than they’d been in years. Your body felt tight, stretched and achy in all the wrong places. You couldn’t tell if it was working, but it hurt.
You tried to push through it. You cleaned the kitchen with a heating pad tucked into the waistband of your leggings. You made dinner for you and Glen, even though the smell of garlic turned your stomach. You smiled when Glen asked if you were okay, and you said “fine” because what else was there to say?
But on day six, Glen walked into the bedroom and found you curled up in a ball under the blankets. The heating pad had been abandoned and you had tears drying on your cheeks.
He crossed the room fast, crouching beside the bed. “Hey. Hey…what’s going on?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” he said gently. “Talk to me, baby.”
You wiped your eyes with the back of your sleep. “I’m just tired.”
“You’ve been in here all day.”
You exhaled sharply. “Because everything hurts, Glen. My stomach hurts. My back hurts. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut and lit on fire.”
He reached to brush some hair out of your face, but you flinched. You reached up and pushed his hand away, not wanting to be touched.
“Sorry,” you mumbled. “I didn’t mean…”
“I know,” he said softly, settling beside you. “I know.”
He reached for you again, and this time you let him hold you while you let your head rest on his chest while he rubbed your back in soft, slow circles. Neither of you said it, but the question lingered in the back of your mind: What if this doesn’t work either?
MONTHS 14-17
Mid cycle ultrasound appointments became a routine. The cold paper on the examination table always stuck to your thighs. The ultrasound wand made you feel a slight discomfort as the doctor moved it around.
“Left ovary: 12mm. One follicle. Right ovary. 16mm. 18mm. Two follicles. Good shape.”
You’d nod as if you weren’t hanging all your hope on those numbers. Sometimes they looked good. Sometimes they didn’t.
When they didn’t, you’d thank the nurse, get dressed in silence, and walk yourself out to the car like your body hadn’t failed you again.
But when they did, when the follicles were the right size, and the scans looked promising you would get dressed quickly. You called Glen the second you got outside.
“I’ll be there,” he always said.
He booked a flight. Whether it was you going to him or him coming home. There were red eye flights. Delayed press meetings. Sometimes rearranging his entire schedule, even when his team protested or complained about the last minute changes every month.
Sometimes Glen was tired when he landed. Sometimes it was the middle of the night, the early hours when most of the world was sleeping. Sometimes he was still in clothes from the night before: a worn flannel and jeans that smelled faintly like stale airport air and too many hours in transit.
But he showed up. Every time.
And he held you like you were something he chose again and again. Not out of obligation, but out of love. You knew that. But sometimes it was hard to feel it.
You tried to make it special. You’d lower the lights, and light some candles. You’d put on something sexy, smooth lotion over your legs, and try to feel like the version of yourself you used to be. The one who used to tug Glen toward the bedroom like you couldn’t wait another second. The one who laughed when he whispered something dirty in your ear as they made dinner. The one who kissed him with purpose. The one who used to crave him. The intimacy. The warmth. The way you used to reach for each other without needing a reason.
But now there was a reason. A deadline. A countdown. A window.
And the pressure wrapped its ugly fingers around you.
Because the sex wasn’t romantic. Not really. You lay there with your legs parted, hips slightly elevated by pillows because someone on a forum said that might help, and you tried not to cry.
Not because of him. Never because of him. Glen was always sweet. Always gentle. He kissed you, and touched you with care. He whispered that he loved you between every breath.
But it wasn’t the same. And you missed the way it used to be. The way sex used to melt everything else away. The teasing. The tangled limbs and messy sheets. The mornings where you were a little sore in the best way, and couldn’t stop smiling. The way you used to not be able to keep your hands off each other.
Now you couldn’t keep your thoughts off the outcome. “Did I ovulate?” “Was that the right day?” “Did we miss it?” “Did I ruin it?”
Some nights Glen would rest his forehead against yours and hold still, like he didn’t want to move away too fast, like he was trying to love you through it. But even then, you felt your mind spiraling, cataloging symptoms and timing.
You weren’t making love anymore. You were making a baby. Or trying to.
But some nights you couldn’t help but wonder…what if you can’t give him the one thing he wants most? What if love wasn’t enough? What if you weren’t?
There was one night in particular. Month 15 or 16 of trying. You didn’t even remember how it started that night. You just knew it was day fourteen. The follicles on the ultrasound looked good. Three promising follicles this time.
Glen had flown in late. You were both tired. Him from a long flight from London after a fourteen hour day filming to let him have a couple days to come home for this. You from the emotional exhaustion that this whole process had been.
You had started to go through the motions. And somewhere in the middle of it, your chest started to ache. Not from anything physical, but from everything else. From the pressure. The guilt. The silent screaming inside your head.
Because it didn’t feel like it used to.
Not like the first time he pushed you up against the wall in his hotel room after a night out, grinning into your mouth like he couldn’t believe you were his. Not like the mornings tangled in sheets after sleeping in too late on the honeymoon. Not like any of the soft, spontaneous moments you used to have when making love had nothing to do with charts or cycles or medications.
Now it just felt like another task to complete. A job to do.
You vaguely registered Glen saying your name. It was soft at first. Then again, a little more urgently. You blinked, realizing you had gone still beneath him.
“Hey,” he murmured, still inside you but not moving. His hand came up to brush a strand of hair from your face. “Talk to me.”
You swallowed hard, eyes stinging with tears threatening to spill. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I’m trying,” you whispered. “I’m really trying. I just…I can’t get out of my own head. I don’t feel–”
He shook his head gently. “Don’t apologize.”
You turned your face away. You were embarrassed. Ashamed even. “This isn’t fair to you. I know you want this.”
He stayed quiet for a moment, then slowly slid out and rolled onto his side beside you.
You expected him to sigh. To get up. Maybe pull on his boxers and retreat to the other side of the bed. Instead he reached for your hand. Intertwined his fingers with yours.
“I want you,” he said.
Your throat tightened. He scooted closer, and pressed his forehead to your temple.
“You know that right? That this…this baby stuff, it’s not the only thing I want with you.”
You didn’t answer, because you were a little afraid to admit that part of that truth had been forgotten by you with everything you’d been through in the last year and some.
“You think I married you just to have a family?” He asked quietly. “I married you because I couldn’t picture a world or a life where I wasn’t waking up next to you. Where I didn’t get to come home and listen to you yell at reality TV or rant about that podcast host you hate but keep listening to.”
A soft laugh slipped from your lips.
Glen smiled against your skin. “There she is.”
You closed your eyes, and let yourself breathe.
“I miss you,” he said, his voice still low. “Not just this. Not just us in bed. I miss you. The way you used to climb into my lap when you were tipsy. The way you’d let me dance with you in the kitchen.” He pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze. “I don’t need you to be okay all the time. I don’t need you to smile or pretend like this doesn’t suck. But I do need you to remember that you’re not alone in this. I don’t want to go through all this if it means losing you.”
A tear slipped down your cheek. Glen reached up and brushed it away with his thumb. “I love you. Every beautiful piece of you.”
You sniffled. “I just feel like I’m failing.”
“You’re not.”
“You say that, but your tests came back fine. You’re not the one who can’t–”
He kissed you before you could finish the sentence. Soft and slow. Like he was trying to press the truth into your mouth.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “This isn’t your fault. We’re in it together. I don’t care what it takes or how long it takes. I want you. I want the life we make together. With or without a baby.”
You broke then. Tears started to fall, and your arms wound around his neck, holding onto him. He shifted and held you just a little together with his arms.
When the tears slowed, Glen pulled the blanket up over you both and started pressing kisses to your shoulder. Your collarbone. That spot just beneath your jaw he always loved to linger on.
It wasn’t urgent anymore. It wasn’t timed or desperate or mechanical. It was just him. He reminded you of every reason you’d ever felt safe in his arms. He worshipped your skin with his mouth, whispered things he knew would make you laugh, and when he finally moved inside you again, it wasn’t because the calendar told you to. It was because you wanted him to.
Because somewhere in the mess of heartbreak and hormones and medical issues, you still found each other. And you tried again. But this time…it felt a little more like love again.
MONTH 18
You were eighteen months in when the doctor suggested adding a trigger shot to your treatment.
“It’s called Pregnyl,” she explained. “It’s an injection that helps ovulation. We’ll use it once your follicles reach a mature size.” She paused, watching your expression carefully. “A partner can administer it if you’re comfortable with that.”
You glanced over at Glen who was seated beside you in the small exam room, his hand curled over yours. He tensed slightly at the word injection. But he didn’t pull away.
The doctor then added, “If it helps, I can walk him through it today. You’re at the right point in your cycle. We could do a dose here today.”
You looked at Glen again. He met your gaze. You could tell he was trying not to show how far out of his depth he felt. But he also looked like someone who would walk through an active warzone if you asked him to.
“Yeah,” he said softly, clearing his throat. “Yeah, I’ll do it.”
The nurse laid everything out. Alcohol wipes. A syringe. A small vial with a sticker with your information on it.
“It’s an intramuscular injection,” she explained, turning toward Glen. “You’ll want to go in at an angle. The doctor recommends the muscle on the upper part of her buttocks, near her hip. You okay so far?”
He nodded once, his mouth tight. “I’m okay.
You stood in front of the nurse, unbuttoning your jeans and pushing them down just enough to expose the area they would need.
You could feel Glen’s nerves like static in the room.
The nurse showed him how to properly mix the powder with the liquid solution and then draw it up in the syringe. She went over the importance of removing air bubbles. Then she showed him how to prep the area to make it sterile with an alcohol wipe.
His hand was warm against your skin when he moved to do the injection, but his touch was careful.
He looked at you before he did it. “You sure?”
You nodded. Then he did it. A quick poke. Followed by steady pressure and a slight burn.
You watched his brow furrow, tongue caught between his teeth as he focused. One hand slowly pushed the plunger while the other hand remained still on your skin.
He had done everything right.
And when it was done, you both stood there for a beat. His hand lingered on your leg, and your hand rested over his.
That night he wrapped his arms around your waist, and kissed your back while you stood at the bathroom sink brushing your teeth. He’d always been a little touchy like that, but lately it felt more deliberate. Almost like he was trying to remind you that you were more than your body’s ability or inability to do something.
“Thank you,” you mumbled after rinsing your mouth, glancing at his reflection in the mirror.
He shrugged “I’m just trying not to hurt you.”
“You didn’t.”
You then turned to face him, and look at him. Really look at him. He looked tired. Not from flying home. But from trying to be strong for you.
“We’ll keep trying, baby.” He said. “One of these times it’ll work.”
MONTHS 19-22
It was a Monday night. You stared at the pregnancy test like if you just gave it another second, the second line might appear. Maybe it needed a few more seconds.
But deep down you knew. There was no second line. Not even a hint of one.
The air caught in your throat, lodged there like a rock. Heavy and immovable. You threw the test against the tile wall of the shower.
“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling.
Your body curled in on itself without permission. Your arms crossed over your chest. Your hands dug into your sides. The tile floor was cold under your feet, but the burn inside your chest spread wide and fast. And suddenly there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room.
You’d done everything right this cycle. Everything. You took the pills. Tracked every symptom. You followed the timing to the hour. The scan had shown four follicles. Four. Glen flew home even though it meant pissing off a producer. You did the shot. You had the sex.
You guys had done it all. Every. Single. Thing.
And it still wasn’t rough.
You didn’t realize you’d sunk to the bathroom floor until the sob broke loose. It wasn’t a quiet cry. It wasn’t the kind you could keep hidden behind a hand. It was one that ripped from your chest like a howl.
The second Glen saw you crumpled on the bathroom floor, Glen knew this wasn’t just another failed cycle. This was the one that broke you.
You were shaking so hard, he could barely get his arms around you. Your sobs were the kind that gutted him. The kind he could feel in his bones. The kind he couldn’t fix, and that was the worst part.
He’d flown home for you. Again. Slept four hours total in the last two days. Took a red eye and got in a heated discussion with a producer because you were more important to him than the filming schedule. You were always going to be more important.
But it still wasn’t enough. None of it was enough.
“I can’t–” your voice cracked. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Okay,” he whispered into your hair. “Okay, then we won’t.”
He let you fall apart in his arms because he didn’t know what else to do. He let you press your face into his chest and soak his shirt with tears because there was nothing he could say to make this okay.
When you said you didn’t want to do this anymore, he believed you. And it scared the hell out of him. Not because he wanted to keep trying. He’d walk away from all of it tomorrow if it meant you’d stop hurting like this.
But it scared him because he could feel how deep your pain went. How hollow this whole journey had left you. How much of yourself you’d poured into the idea of being a mother. And how afraid you were that it might never happen.
“We don’t have to to this,” he murmured, holding your head to his chest. “Not like this. Not if it’s breaking you.”
You didn’t respond, just gripped his shirt in your fists like you were afraid he might disappear.
“Maybe it’s time we stop trying to force it. Maybe…maybe we take a break.”
You pulled back, eyes red and tired and full of something close to despair. “And if it never happens?”
“Then it never happens,” he said, even though his throat burned. “But I still get you. That’s the part I care about.”
Tears welled again, but this time they fell silent. No more sobs. No more anger. Just grief.
He cupped your face, brushing his thumbs beneath your eyes to wipe away the tears.
“You’re still the same woman I married. The one I’d fly across the world for. The one I want to wake up next to…kid or no kid. Baby, I need you to hear me…I love you. You're all I want."
Your chin trembled and your lips quivered. Then you collapsed into him again. He didn’t move. Didn’t try to fix it. He just sat there on the cold bathroom floor, your body curled in his lap, his lips pressed to the top of your head.
Because even when the test was negative, you were still everything to him.
MONTH 23
The next month Glen had a week off between when one project wrapped on filming and his next one would begin. He suggested getting away for a few days, just the two of you.
And now here you were, miles away from the city, tucked inside a quiet cabin at the edge of the woods. There was very little phone reception. You had turned off the alerts and reminders. You were taking a month off, just to…be.
You leaned against the door frame as you watched Glen hum to himself in the kitchen as he chopped vegetables. His lips twitched before curving into a faint smile when he caught you looking.
“You gonna help or just admire me?” He teased holding up a cherry tomato.
You walked over, and stole it from his hand before popping it into your mouth.
“I think I’ll do both,” you said, and he smiled and leaned in to kiss you.
That night you ate together on the back porch. Glen poured you a glass of wine–your first in months. The air was cool, and the stars seemed to be endless overhead. It was a reminder that the world was still spinning. That the world hadn’t paused, even if it sometimes felt like yours had.
You didn’t talk about doctors or follicles or two week waits. Instead you talked about Glen work and how filming was going on his latest project. You talked to him about your friends and got him caught up on all the latest gossip. And he laughed in that deep, unguarded way that you hadn’t heard in what felt like years.
Later, curled together on the couch, you rested your head on his chest. His hand stroked slow circles against your back.
“I missed this,” you whispered.
“Me too,” he said. “Missed you.”
You lifted your head to look up at him, his eyes catching in the low light. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”
“I know,” he said. “But feel like I haven’t seen this you in a while.”
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat rising before you could stop it.
“I don’t know who I am anymore, Glen. I feel like I’ve just become this, this…science experiment that keeps failing.”
He shook his head, tugging you closer until your forehead rested against his.
“You’re not failing,” he murmured. “You’re trying. You’ve carried so much of this, and I hate that it’s made you feel like less. Because to me? You’re everything. Baby or no baby. You’re still my girl.”
Your eyes stung, and you pressed your face into his shoulder, breathing him in.
“I forgot,” you whispered.
“Forgot what?”
“What it felt like to be just that. Your girl.”
He cupped the back of your neck with his calloused hands and kissed your hair. “Then let me help you remember.”
* * * *
The next day, you hiked through some of the trails near the cabin you were staying at. You stopped to take in the view from a cliffside that overlooked a lake. Glen took your picture when you weren’t looking, and then one of the two of you.
You didn’t care what you looked like. You didn’t feel pressure to smile a certain way or pretend you were okay. You were okay. For the first time in a long time.
That night after dinner and one too many s’mores over the firepit, you sat on one of the porch swings. Glen sat beside you.
“Do you ever think about other ways?” He asked you softly. “To have a family I mean?”
You were quiet for a beat, then glanced over at him. “What do you mean?”
He was quiet for a moment before he looked at you. “Adoption. Surrogacy.”
“Is that something you would want to look into?”
“Only if you would,” he admitted. “I want to be a dad, yeah. But mostly I just want a life with you that feels full.”
You looked into his sage green eyes, the same ones you fell in love with years ago. “Even if us having a baby naturally never happens?”
“Even then.” His gaze was steady as he continued. “Baby, you are my life. And whatever our life looks like whether it’s no kids, adopted kids, our own kids, I just want to be with you. I want to build a life together and fill it with love. And I promise I’ll do everything I can to give you that.”
The two of you stayed out on the porch a little longer, your legs curled beneath you on the porch chair. The air was still warm and thick with the scent of mesquite and something faintly sweet blooming nearby. Every now and then you’d hear a nightbird call out.
The conversation had settled between you. For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself rest in the quiet, in the knowing that you were on the same page again.
Eventually Glen stood and offered you his hand. “Come on, let’s go inside.”
You followed him through the screen door, and into the stillness of the cabin. The glow from the porch lights spilled through the windows, just enough to guide your way as you walked down the hallway together, your fingers brushing now and then.
When you reached the bedroom he paused, looking at you like he was asking a question without words. You gave him a smile and he returned one before turning the handle and pushing it open.
The lights were low. The windows cracked open, letting in the cool night air. The stars outside shimmered quietly, and for once the silence in your body wasn’t filled with hope or grief. It was just stillness. Just peace.
The two of you crawled onto the bed. Glen lay beside you, one hand tucked behind his head, the other resting gently on your waist. You could feel the warmth of his fingers even through the thin fabric of your shirt. You turned toward him, studying the familiar curve of his jaw, the lines near his eyes, softened in the glow of the bedside lamp.
“You’re staring,” he murmured, voice low and lazy.
“I missed your face,” you said quietly.
“You see it all the time.”
“Not like this,” you said, brushing your fingertips along his cheekbone. “Not without all the noise.”
He shifted onto his side, his hand sliding up your spine beneath your shirt.
“I missed this too,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
It hit you then just how long it had been since he’d looked at you like this. Just his girl. Just the woman he loved.
You leaned in and kissed him softly. And when he answered, it wasn’t rushed or mechanical or timed. It wasn’t the clinical kind of sex that had begun to take over your life, the kind with calendars and stress and whispered fears of failure.
This was slow. Unhurried.
His hands moved over you gently, like he was relearning you. He took his time undressing you. You helped him with his shirt. He moved to hover over you on the bed, his body steady above you. Your fingers tangled in his hair as he kissed you again, deeper this time.
There was no talk to timing, no mental checklist of what “needed to happen”.
There was just the two of you.
When Glen finally positioned himself between your legs and pushed in, it was slow. Tender. His hand cradled your face as he whispered your name, his eyes never leaving yours.
He held you through every breath, every sigh, and every quiet moan. When it was over, he curled around you, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back.
You felt safe. You felt whole. You felt loved. And for the first time in what felt like forever, making love wasn’t about trying to make a baby.
MONTH 24
You’re not even supposed to be thinking about it.
This month was supposed to be a break. A pause from the meds, the schedules, the sex that felt more like obligation than intimacy. Glen’s in London for work. The timing just didn’t work. You’d both agreed. No pressure. No trying again this month.
And still…you stare down at your calendar. Your period was supposed to start three days ago. Usually by now, your body’s shouting the warning signs: bloating, cramping, irrational anger at minor inconveniences. But this time, there’s…nothing.
You try to convince yourself it’s the leftover hormones. Your body trying to recalibrate after months of artificial nudging. That’s all it is. A fluke. A shift in rhythm.
But the tiny voice in the back of your mind won't let it go.
You’re distracted all day. Folding laundry, forgetting what pile you were sorting. You pour yourself a glass of wine with dinner, then pour it out after a sip. Not because it tasted off, but because something in you hesitated.
That’s when you know. You don’t want to know, but you do. You already know.
Still, your fingers tremble as you open the drawer in the bathroom. You kept a few tests stashed there, leftovers from the last round. You shouldn’t be doing this. You haven’t taken any medication this month. There’s no way. You haven’t tracked ovulation. You didn’t even think you were in your fertile window when you and Glen went on that trip.
You take the test anyway.
You set it down on the edge of the counter, telling yourself not to look, not to hope. You wash your hands. Wipe down the sink. Scroll aimlessly on your phone for three minutes that somehow feel like a century.
When you finally glance back at the test, your breath catches in your throat.
Two lines. Two. Clear. Lines.
You blink. Once. Twice. The image doesn’t change. You reach for it, pick it up with trembling hands. It’s positive.
You sit down on the edge of the tub, the tile cold against the back of your calves. Your entire body starts to shake. Not from fear, but from the fragile weight of hope. The kind you stopped letting yourself feel months ago.
Tears blur your vision. You clutch the test in your fist like it might disappear if you let go.
You need to tell Glen.
You grab your phone and fumble to FaceTime him, barely noticing the time. It’s 4:06a.m. in London. It rings twice before he answers, face groggy, and hair a mess. He’s laying shirtless on white sheets in a bed.
“Hey,” he says, voice thick with sleep. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
You can’t get the words out. You try, but all that comes is a broken sob.
Glen instantly sits up, eyes wide. “Hey. Hey, talk to me. Are you okay? Did something happen?”
You shake your head, trying to steady your breath. “I–I just…I needed to see you.”
“You’re scaring me,” he says softly. “Are you slipping again? Or did something happen?”
“No,” you manage to whisper. “Nothing like that.”
“Then what is it?”
You hold the phone out toward the bathroom counter, framing the test in the camera.
Glen leans forward, squinting. It takes a second to register. But when it does, he exhales sharply.
His lips part, and he goes completely still. “Is that–”
You nod, barely able to hold eye contact. “I wasn’t even going to take it. I thought it was just a fluke. I’m late and I don’t feel off but I figured it was the meds wearing off. I just…I had to check. Just to shut myself up.”
“And it’s…?” He chokes on his words.
“It’s positive,” you whisper. “I don’t understand it either. But it is.”
Glen runs a hand over his face, then through his hair, breathing hard. His eyes are glassy, jaw clenched like he’s trying to keep it together.
“I’m coming home,” he says, voice breaking. “I’ll get on the first flight I can find.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he says, more certain now. “You shouldn’t be alone for this. We said we were taking a break, but if this is really happening...if this is real…”
“I don’t want to jinx it,” you murmur. “I keep thinking it’s some weird false positive or a glitch or...God, I don’t know.”
Glen softens. “Hey. Listen to me. Whatever happens, we’re in this together. Okay? This time, next time…all of it.”
You nod, swiping at your cheeks. “I didn’t even let myself hope.”
His voice lowers, full of that tenderness he’s reserved only for you. “Then let me do it for both of us. I’ll be there soon. I promise.”
You nod again, not trusting your voice.
“I love you,” he says, and for the first time in weeks, it doesn’t feel like a routine reassurance. It feels like an anchor.
“I love you too,” you whisper.
The call ends. Silence settles around you again. The bathroom is dim. Still.
You stay there for a minute. Then two. The test still sits in your lap, a quiet reminder of something so impossibly fragile.
You slide down onto the floor, legs tucked to your chest, head resting against the cabinet. Your palm presses lightly to your stomach.
It’s too early for anything. Too soon to know if this one will stay. But for the first time in months, maybe years, you let yourself whisper it into the quiet.
“Please stay.”
You don’t say it out loud because you’re afraid you’ll shatter if you do. But inside, it echoes with desperate, aching clarity.
Please stay.
Please stay.
Please.
Late the next day you hear the door slam open before you even see him.
“Babe?”
You make your way into the kitchen where Glen has just come in through the garage. You look at him with tears in your eyes, the test clenched in one hand, your phone in the other.
Glen drops his bag, and crosses the space in seconds. He wraps you up like you might float away if he doesn’t hold you tight enough.
“Tell me again,” he whispers into your hair.
You breathe and shakily say, “it was positive.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, cupping your face. “Say it.”
“I’m pregnant.”
He lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half sob before kissing you. You stay there for a long time, wrapped around each other, hearts pounding. And for the first time in months, it feels like everything is going to be okay.
6 WEEKS
You lay on the cold paper of the exam table while Glen sits in the chair next to you. The lights in the room have been dimmed so the doctor could see the ultrasound images better.
You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until the sound of a heartbeat fills the room.
Fast and steady. And real.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. The hand that’s not holding Glen’s flies to your mouth.
Glen squeezes your hand tighter. His eyes are locked on the monitor, on that tiny flicker of movement as the doctor’s eyes scan the screen, ensuring everything looks okay.
His voice cracks as he says, “that’s our baby.”
The doctor smiles, pointing out the shape on the screen and making a few comments about how things look. But you and Glen barely hear her. You’re both so overwhelmed, both of you fighting back tears.
Because this is real. This is yours.
16 WEEKS
You stood in front of the mirror, tugging at the hem of your favorite t-shirt, trying to make it stretch. It had always been loose. It was the shirt you lived in on lazy Sundays. But not it clung to your stomach in a way that made you feel suddenly foreign in your own skin.
You’d been holding it together all morning. Your hormones were in full force that day. But when the t-shirt refused to cooperate, it broke something open.
“Seriously?” You muttered under your breath, yanking it back off and tossing it toward the bed. Your skin prickled, hot with frustration. You grabbed another top from the drawer, a looser tank. But even that pulled across your chest and stomach.
You could feel the tears coming before they even reached your eyes.
“It’s fine,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t fine. You weren’t fine.
You sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly out of breath from the simplest task. Your hands curled into fists in your lap. You hated how emotional you’d been lately. How the smallest things, like a sandwich cut the wrong way or a stretch mark that hadn’t been there the previous week could unravel you.
Thats how Glen found you. Sitting in just your underwear and an old bra that was now too tight, staring blankly at the floor like she was somewhere else entirely.
He paused in the doorway, holding a basket of clean laundry and took in the scene in front of him.
“Hey,” he said gently. “Everything okay?”
You didn’t answer.
He set the laundry basket down, and crossed the room slowly. He knelt in front of you, placing a warm hand on your knee.
“Talk to me, baby. What’s going on?”
“I can’t fit into anything,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Everything’s too small. Too tight. I don’t even look like myself.”
You kept your eyes down too ashamed to meet Glen’s. But his hand didn’t leave your leg. His other hand reached up to cup your face.
“You’re growing our baby,” he said softly. “You’re supposed to change a little.”
“I know,” you said. “But I still hate it. I want to feel beautiful and glowing and all that stuff people talk about. But right now I just feel…like a stuffed can of biscuits.”
Your voice cracked at the end, and this time tears came warm and steady down your cheeks.
“You are beautiful,” he whispered. “I know your body’s changing. But you’re still you. And I’ve never loved you more than I do right now.”
You finally looked at him, your eyes glassy and red. “Even when I’m a mess like this?”
He nodded, moving to sit beside you on the bed. “Especially when you’re a mess like this.”
You let yourself fall into him, burying your face in his shoulder. His arms came around you instantly, strong and warm, grounding you.
“I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful,” you said into his shirt. “I am. I’m so grateful. But sometimes I just…miss who I was before all this.”
“I get it,” he said, his voice low and steady. “But you’re still her. You’re still my girl. And this version of you? The one who’s growing our little bean and being brave every day? She’s amazing.”
You sniffled, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “I’m not wearing that stupid shirt anymore.”
“Good,” Glen said with a crooked smile, wiping your cheek with his thumb. “Because I have something better.”
He got up, crossed to the dresser, and pulled out one of his softest, biggest hoodies. It was the faded UT Longhorns one he practically lived in for a decade. He tossed it to you. “Wear mine.”
You smiled for the first time that morning as you tugged it over your head. It was huge, draping over your bump and hitting your mid thigh.
Glen whispered, “You know, I think I’m gonna have to start hiding more of my clothes.”
“Why?”
“Because you look way better in them than I ever did.”
She laughed softly, eyes shining, head resting on his shoulder.
21 WEEKS
The ultrasound room was dim, the air cool with the hum of machines. You lay back on the padded table, gown bunched around your waist, gel warm against your skin. Glen sat in the chair beside you, one hand gripping yours tightly.
Neither of you spoke as the tech moved the wand across your belly. The grainy black and white image appeared on the monitor, flickering, shifting until finally you could see it. A profile. A tiny curve of nose. The flutter of movement.
You exhaled shakily, squeezing Glen’s hand. He looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe, his eyes fixed on the screen as if it might disappear if he blinked.
“Heartbeat’s strong,” the tech said kindly. “Everything looks right on track.” She paused, glancing between you. “Do you want to know the sex?”
You turned your head toward Glen. He was already looking at you, his thumb brushing circles against your palm. His voice was low, rough. “Do you?”
You nodded, unable to trust your voice.
The tech smiled. “Congratulations. You’re having a little girl.”
For a moment, the words just hung there. A girl.
Tears blurred your vision before you even registered them. They spilled warm down your temples, soaking into the paper lining beneath your head. Glen’s other hand came up to cover his face, but not fast enough because you saw the way his eyes shone, saw the smile trembling at the corners of his mouth.
“A girl,” he whispered, his voice breaking on the word. He leaned down, pressing his forehead to your temple. “Baby, we’re having a girl.”
You let out a soft, breathless laugh through the tears.
“She’s real,” you whispered. “She’s really real.”
Glen kissed your temple, then your cheek, then your lips. Not caring that they were damp with tears. He pulled back just enough to look down at your stomach, still slick with gel, still rounded beneath the gown. His hand trembled as he laid it gently there, thumb brushing over where your daughter kicked faintly, as if she already knew she’d been discovered.
“She’s perfect,” he said, voice thick with awe. “Our little girl.”
You closed your eyes, tears spilling freely now. For months, you’d whispered desperate pleas into the quiet, and now here she was.
Later that night, back at home, Glen knelt in front of you as you sat on the edge of the bed, hands braced against your thighs. He lifted your shirt carefully, reverently, and pressed his lips to the curve of your belly.
“Hi, baby girl,” he whispered against your skin. “It’s your dad. I can’t wait to meet you.”
You threaded your fingers through his hair, watching as his tears dampened the hem of your shirt. He didn’t hide them this time.
For the first time in years, hope didn’t feel fragile anymore.
28 WEEKS
You woke with a gasp, heart pounding so hard you thought it might crack your ribs. The room was dark, shadows stretching across the ceiling, the faint hum of the fan barely cutting through the ringing in your ears.
Your hand flew to your stomach.
The dream had been so vivid. Too vivid. You’d been standing in a hospital room. Sterile and cold. The monitors silent. The bassinet beside your bed empty. There had been no heartbeat. No tiny kicks.
“No,” you whispered, panic rising like bile. “No, no, no–”
Beside you, Glen stirred. He rolled toward you instantly, still half-asleep, but alert enough to register the panic in your voice. “Sweetheart? Hey, what’s wrong?”
You couldn’t answer. Tears blurred your vision, spilling hot and fast as you clutched your belly harder, desperate for movement. For proof.
“Talk to me,” he urged, sitting up now, his hand covering yours. “What happened?”
“I–I dreamed she was gone.” Your voice broke. “They couldn’t–”
Glen’s breath caught, and his hand pressed firmly against the curve of your stomach. He waited, patient, steady, until he felt it. A kick. Small. Certain.
“She’s here,” he whispered, his forehead dropping to your temple. Relief rushed through you so quickly it left you shaking. “She’s right here, baby. I feel her.”
You sobbed harder, burying your face in his chest. “I’m scared. So scared. After everything…we’ve been through. What if it’s not enough? What if she…” your words dissolve into the tears.
“Shhh.” He wrapped both arms around you, pulling you onto his lap like you weighed nothing. His hand never left your belly, thumb stroking circles as though he could soothe both of you at once. “She’s strong. You’re strong. And we’re gonna meet her in a few months. I swear it.”
You sniffled, clinging to him tighter. His sweatshirt smelled like laundry detergent and cedarwood cologne, grounding you back in the moment.
After a while, when your tears had slowed, Glen leaned back just enough to look at you. His eyes shone in the dim light, his lashes damp. “Can I tell you something?”
You nodded.
“I’m scared, too,” he admitted softly. “Every day. I put on a brave face because I don’t want you carrying more than you already do. But the truth is—I’ve never wanted anything more than this. More than her. More than us, like this. And sometimes, that terrifies me.”
You blinked at him, surprised. “You never seem scared.”
“I am,” he said simply. “But then I look at you, and I remember why we’re doing this. And I think if we’ve survived all of this together, then we can survive anything.”
You pressed your forehead to his, letting his words sink in. The panic ebbed slowly, replaced by something steadier. Something warmer.
Glen kissed the trail of tears from your cheeks before whispering into your skin: “She’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay. And when she gets here, she’s gonna know she was loved every single second.”
You exhaled shakily, hand covering his on your belly. Another kick fluttered beneath your joined palms, stronger this time.
For the first time all night, you smiled through your tears. “She heard you.”
34 WEEKS
The room is quiet. No hum of monitors. No music playing. Just the hush of late evening and the slow, rhythmic sound of your breathing and Glen’s.
You’re sitting between his legs, resting against his chest on the couch in the nursery. His arms are wrapped around you, one hand splayed wide across your belly, thumb gently moving in slow circles. Your hands rest over his, cradling them there like a prayer.
It’s not the first time he’s touched your belly like this. But it might be the first time you both let yourselves really feel it.
You’ve both been holding your breath for so long.
So many months of negative tests. Of timed schedules and disappointment. Of doing everything right and still being told "not this time."
But tonight? You’re 34 weeks. She’s kicking softly beneath Glen’s palm. You feel it. He feels it. And neither of you speaks.
Tears roll down your cheeks, unannounced. Quiet and warm, sliding over skin that feels both too fragile and too full. You don’t even wipe them away. You just sit in it, letting the feeling flood you.
Glen’s chin dips until it rests gently on your shoulder, his lips brushing your neck. He doesn’t say anything. But when you shift slightly to glance back at him, you see his eyes glistening.
He blinks once.
Then again.
His grip around you tightens slightly, like he’s trying to anchor himself to this. To you.
“I can’t believe we made it here,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.
Glen doesn’t speak for a second. He swallows hard. Then, finally says, “I know.”
His voice cracks on that one word. Barely a sound. But you hear the tremor in it, the way it catches in the back of his throat.
You reach up and brush your fingers over his forearm, grounding him the way he’s always tried to ground you.
“I was so scared we’d never get this,” you say quietly. “That I wouldn’t get to feel this. That I wouldn’t get to watch you fall in love with her before she’s even born.”
Glen’s breath catches, and this time, he doesn’t hold it in. A tear spills from the corner of his eye, slipping down his cheek. He brushes it away quickly, like if he doesn’t acknowledge it, it’ll be easier to keep the rest from falling. But it’s no use.
He exhales shakily and leans forward, pressing a kiss to the back of your shoulder, then your jaw.
“I’ve never wanted something so much in my life,” he says, his voice thick and raw. “Just…this. You. Her. This whole messy, beautiful life we’ve made.”
You twist slightly in his arms so you can see his face fully, and what you find there undoes you.
His lashes are wet. His mouth is soft, trembling slightly. He looks at you like he still can’t quite believe you’re real. Like he’s memorizing the moment.
You reach up and cup his face. Your thumb runs over the crease in his brow, over the tear-streaked edge of his cheek.
“She’s already so loved,” you whisper. “And she doesn’t even know yet.”
Glen nods, eyes locked on yours. “She’ll never have to wonder if she’s wanted.”
You let out a small, broken laugh. “She’s wanted more than anything.”
Glen leans in then, forehead to yours, lips brushing in a kiss that’s not about passion or heat. It’s about comfort. Gratitude. Reverence.
And then, in the hush of the room, with your tears still falling and his breath still uneven, you feel it again. A little thump against his palm. A tiny kick, strong and sure.
He pulls back just enough to look down, his hand still resting against your belly. His expression crumbles.
“She’s in there,” he whispers, awestruck, almost reverent. “Our little girl.”
You nod, pressing your hand over his.
“And she’s almost here.”
Glen leans in again, this time resting his cheek against the curve of your shoulder, eyes closed. His hand stays on your belly, unmoving now, just feeling her. Feeling you.
Neither of you says anything more.
There’s nothing left to say.
Just the sound of your heartbeats and the life you created between them.
39 WEEKS
The room was warm, too bright, and filled with voices that blurred together. But the only thing that mattered, the only thing you could focus on, was Glen’s hand gripping yours and the sound of his voice steadying you through every wave of pain.
“You’ve got this, baby. Breathe with me.”
You leaned into him, forehead damp with sweat, your hair falling out of the braid you’d thrown it into hours earlier. He brushed the strands back gently, tucking them behind your ear. His touch was tender, grounding. Even with the chaos around you, he was calm. He was your anchor.
Another contraction tore through, sharp and unrelenting. You cried out, body curling around the pain. Glen pressed his forehead against yours, his thumb stroking the back of your hand.
“That’s it. You’re so strong. You’re almost there,” he whispered, his voice tight with emotion he was trying to hold back. “Just keep breathing. I’m right here.”
When the doctor’s voice came clear and steady, it cut through the haze. “It’s time to push.”
He squeezed your hand.
“We’re about to meet her,” he murmured, his own voice catching. “Our girl.”
And then you bore down, pushing with everything you had left. Glen’s hand never left yours, his other pressed gently against your forehead, brushing back damp hair, whispering encouragement with every breath.
“That’s it, baby. That’s perfect. You’re doing so good. She’s almost here.”
The room seemed to fade. The nurses. The monitors. The calls of “Push again, that’s it!” None of it mattered. There was just Glen’s voice in your ear, his lips brushing your temple, his hand holding on like he’d never let go.
And then a cry. Sharp. Piercing. The most beautiful sound you’d ever heard.
You collapsed back against the pillows, sobs tearing through you, not from pain this time, but from the overwhelming flood of relief and joy. Tears blurred your vision as the doctor lifted a tiny, squirming body and placed her gently against your chest.
Your daughter. Your perfect little girl.
Her cries softened as you curled your arms around her, skin to skin, your tears spilling onto her dark, damp hair. You pressed trembling lips to her head, inhaling her newness, her warmth, the impossible reality of her existence.
“She’s here,” you sobbed. “Oh my God, she’s really here.”
You looked up through blurred vision at Glen. He was already crying, his eyes wet, his chest heaving with ragged breaths he couldn’t quite control. He reached out, his large hand trembling as he placed it gently on your daughter’s back, covering the tiny rise and fall of her breathing.
“She’s perfect,” he whispered, voice broken. “She’s so perfect.”
You watched him, your heart aching with love. For him, for her, for this moment you’d prayed for and nearly given up on.
Together, the two of you held her, your hands overlapping on her tiny body. Your girl. Your family.
The chaos of the room moved on around you. Nurses cleaning up. Monitors beeping. But for the three of you, time stood still.
You kissed the crown of your daughter’s head, then looked back at Glen. His tears had spilled freely now, his lips curved in the softest smile you’d ever seen.
* * * * *
Hours later the hospital room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of a lamp in the corner. The bustle of doctors and nurses had quieted hours ago, leaving only the quiet hum of the monitors and the steady rhythm of your breathing.
You were half asleep, exhaustion pulling at your body, but some part of you clung to the moment, afraid to let it slip away into dreams.
Glen sat in the chair beside your bed, their daughter nestled in his arms. The top four buttons of his shirt were undone as she laid against his warm chest. His hair a mess, but he’d never looked more at peace.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Every tiny movement. The flutter of her lips, the twitch of her first, the way she would sometimes sigh in her sleep. She held him captive. His thumb brushed over the soft blanket wrapped around her, his hand so big compared to her impossibly small form.
You blinked heavy eyes open, watching them through the haze of fatigue. Glen didn’t notice. He was too wrapped up in her.
He leaned closer, pressing the lightest kiss to her forehead, tears glinting in his eyes. “We waited so long for you,” he murmured.
The words lodged in your chest. You swallowed past the ache and whispered, voice fragile but certain, “You were worth every second.”
Glen’s head turned, his eyes finding yours in the dim light. His lips trembled into a soft smile. He shifted forward, bringing your daughter closer so you could reach out. Your fingertips brushed her cheek.
“She’s perfect,” you breathed.
“She’s ours,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
Glen stood then, moving to perch carefully on the edge of the bed. He lowered the baby into your arms, his hand guiding yours, steadying them even though you were already holding her close.
The weight of her against your chest was unlike anything you’d ever known. Solid. Real. Fragile and infinite all at once. Tears spilled freely now, slipping down your cheeks as you bent to press your lips to her soft hair.
“I love you,” you whispered against her. Then you looked up at Glen, meeting his gaze. “I love you both so much.”
He cupped the back of your neck, pulling you into a kiss that tasted of salt and relief. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, the baby cradled safely between you.
“I love you too. You guys are everything to me.” He admitted.
The room was silent except for the soft breaths of the newborn in your arms, the steady beat of your hearts pressed close. Outside the world carried on, but in this small cocoon of light and love, time stood still.
After everything…the months of waiting, the nights of tears, the whispered pleas into the dark. You had finally arrived at this moment.
And it was everything.
