And that’s when the next kind of heartbreak began.
The emptiness got louder. Not just silence—absence that pressed in. Every negative test felt like the universe mocking our hope.
Each time, I’d drop the test into the trash with trembling fingers and crawl into bed. I’d face the wall and say nothing. Martin would just hold me, no words needed. Just presence.
Words weren’t necessary. The silence carried it all.
“Maybe we’re not meant to,” I whispered one night.
“Maybe… just not yet,” Martin said, kissing my shoulder.
The family knew. They saw us trying. They knew how much we were hurting.
And Amber?
She pretended to care. But her eyes always told the truth.
Martin’s sister treated grief like it was a show—something to analyze. She’d tilt her head just so, judging whether our pain was too much or too little.
She came often after Robert di:ed, but never to help. Never asked how we were. She just sat in our living room with too much perfume and judgment in her gaze, sipping tea and scanning the family photos like she expected us to forget who was missing.
So when we hosted Martin’s birthday last week—just close family—I should’ve known better than to relax.
“We’ll keep it simple,” I told Martin. “Dinner, cake. Nothing heavy.”
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