The last time I saw my ex-husband before the wedding invitation arrived, he stood in the middle of our empty living room with his car keys in one hand and divorce papers in the other.
“You wasted ten years of my life, Vanessa,” he said coldly. “I want a real family.”
At the time, I was too numb to answer.
Ten years.
Ten years of doctor appointments, hormone injections, surgeries, prayers, and heartbreak. Ten years of holding his hand through every disappointment while secretly blaming myself for every negative pregnancy test.
And when the specialists finally discovered the truth—that he had fertility issues, not me—he refused to accept it.
Marcus stormed out of the clinic accusing the doctors of incompetence. Three weeks later, he moved in with his twenty-six-year-old assistant.
