The ceiling is white.
Clinical. Sterile. The kind of white that belongs in hospitals, in laboratories, in places where bodies become data points and intimacy becomes procedure.
I stare at it and reconsider every choice that brought me here.
Three years of trying. Countless negative pregnancy tests. The hormone injections that made me bloated and emotional. The IUI procedures that felt invasive and cold and ultimately useless. The IVF cycles that drained our savings and our hope in equal measure.
Then the divorce. Because apparently "for better or worse" doesn't include fertility struggles and the slow erosion of intimacy that comes with turning s*x into a medical procedure.
And now this.
A room that looks like a cross between a doctor's office and a high-end hotel suite. Medical equi
