My husband, Daniel, and I have been married for twenty years. It’s been a quiet journey, filled with mutual understanding and acceptance, especially after we came to terms with not being able to have children.
Our life together is comfortable, perhaps mundane to some, but it suits us perfectly.
This Thursday started like any other, but as I placed my groceries on the conveyor belt, a young cashier I hadn’t seen before struck up a conversation. “How’s the baby doing? Your husband was here last week, asking a lot about baby food allergies,” she said, scanning a box of cereal.
I paused, my hand on a carton of milk.
“I think you must be mistaken. We don’t have a baby,” I replied, the words stiff on my tongue as a wave of confusion washed over me. The cashier, a boy barely out of his teens, looked up, surprised.
“No, I remember him.
He asked for hypoallergenic baby formula. He was very specific,” she insisted, pushing my groceries further along.
The drive home was a blur. My mind raced with impossible scenarios.
Daniel, my Daniel, involved with someone else? A baby? The thought lodged itself in my chest, heavy and suffocating.
We had faced our reality of childlessness together—had he found a way to undo that part of our life without me?
Sleep was elusive that night, and by morning, I was resolute. I needed answers. I couldn’t confront Daniel without knowing the full story.
So, I did something I never thought I would—I decided to follow him.
