Jack climbs in the driver’s seat and closes his door. “It’s okay, Carly,” he says, rubbing my back in an attempt to comfort me. “If we’re meant to have more children, we will. There’s no need to stress over this.”

“What?” I ask in disbelief. “What do you mean? We have always wanted a large family. If this doesn’t work, then that goes away. How can I not stress about it?”

His arm moves away from my back and he grips the steering wheel tightly, closing his eyes. “Car,” he exhales, “I have a business trip next week; we can talk more about this when I get back.”

“We need to talk about this now, Jack,” I insist. I begin to nervously twist my long hair around my fingers. The direction of this conversation has my stomach in knots.

“I don’t think now is a good time. You’re emotional. We need to let it cool down before we address the issue any further.” His eyes are pleading with me to leave the topic alone, but I ignore the warning. Nothing will be different a week from now; I need to hear what he’s holding back.

“No. If you have something to say, say it,” I stutter.

He exhales loudly and stares out his window momentarily before finally speaking. “I’m done, Carly. No more ovulation kits, no more family planning calendars, no more scheduled sex. I’m done. We need to be happy with the family we have. If we were meant to have more children, we would have them. It’s not in our future, and I’m okay with that. I think it’s time you accept that, too.”

I vigorously shake my head, in disbelief of what I’m hearing. He’s giving up. This journey to have more children is just beginning and he’s throwing in the towel. Before he can say anymore, I open the door and climb out of the car.

“Come on, Carly. Get back in the car,” I hear him say as I slam the door. He reaches for his door handle to come after me, but I hold my hand up to signal him to stay where he is. Shaking my head, I mouth the words that seem to seal my fate. “Go home.”

Summer 2014

Carly

“Hurry, Olivia! We need to get things put away and dinner started before your daddy gets home from his business trip,” I shout over my shoulder as I walk through the living room, my arms loaded down with bags of groceries. Olivia is lagging behind, dragging a small sack behind her, most of its contents spilling across the floor.

“I’m coming, Momma,” my four-year-old says merrily, stopping to pick up the cookies which have fallen out of her grocery bag. Distracted by the sugary goodness of the Oreos, she abandons her task and plops onto the floor attempting to peel open the package.

I quickly fling my bags onto the kitchen counter and race back into the living room to save my carpet from a cookie crumb disaster. “You can have one if you sit up at the table with it, but no more until after dinner. Deal?” I tell her.

“Deal,” she responds. Her wide grin exposes her chocolate covered teeth from the cookie she has managed to inhale before I could get to her.

I hand her the cookie and she races to the kitchen to sit at the table to eat it. Grabbing the empty grocery sack, I travel Olivia’s previous path to pick up the abandoned grocery items, like a trail of bread crumbs. Once I have her mess handled, I return to the car to grab the remainder of the groceries.

“Is Daddy bringing a present?” she asks as I begin to put the food items in the refrigerator and pantry. Everything has its perfect place. After Olivia was born I stopped working outside the home. I consider her, my husband, and this house my job, and I take it very seriously. Birthday parties are well-organized, I volunteer at Olivia’s preschool, and dinner is always made on time, even if it’s just Liv and me eating it. I look the part. I feel the part. I am the ideal homemaker wife, or at least I hope I am.

“I don’t know, Liv. You’ll just have to wait and see,” I tell her with a smile.

She and I both know we don’t have to think about it too hard. Jack always brings home gifts for the two of us when he goes on business trips. He’s been working on setting up a branch office in New York for his brokerage firm and has spent a great deal of time there. The trips have gotten more frequent and for longer amounts of time. I know it bothers him, so, to make up for his absenteeism at home, he showers us with gifts when he returns.

We have missed him, but Liv and I make do. I’m just thankful for the job he has; it provides a way for me to stay home with our daughter, and, hopefully at some point, we will finally get pregnant again or I’ll talk Jack into adopting. So, sacrificing some of our time with him is a fair tradeoff for me.

Olivia jumps down from her chair and I grab a washrag and begin wiping down the table Olivia has vacated, her cookie crumbs covering the top. “Drink, Momma,” she says, walking to the fridge, expecting me to follow and comply with her demand.

I rinse the rag in the sink and fold it nicely to dry and then follow her to the refrigerator. “Just a little milk, and then you can go color while I fix dinner.”

She nods and I pour her a small glass of milk into a pink cup.

“No!” she shouts, just as the liquid hits the bottom of the plastic cup. “My purple one.”

I halt the flow of milk because I know exactly where this is going. “I already have milk in the pink one. This is fine, Liv.”

Olivia lets her body go limp and falls to the floor pretending to cry. “I need a drink, Momma. I need my purple cup.”

“Oh my goodness, girl. The pink one is just as good as the purple one," I say, rolling my eyes.

“Purple,” she cries.

“Olivia,” I say a little more sternly. “Don’t you–”

“Purple,” she says in a monotone voice, cutting me off, her body sprawled out on the wood floor.

I turn and open the cupboard once more to grab her favorite purple plastic cup and pour milk into it. “Get up, young lady,” I say as I put the milk back into the fridge.

She hops up and begins to swipe the cup from my hand, but I pull it out of her reach. “That was not okay, Olivia. Next time I see a fit like that, I will walk out of this kitchen and leave you on that floor. You got it?” I ask.

Her eyes cast down and she slowly nods her head in understanding.

“Now drink your milk and head to the playroom to color for a bit until dinner’s ready.”

Just as I hand it to her, the phone begins to ring and I race to the living room to answer it before the machine picks up. Leaving Olivia with her cup is a huge risk. I will more than likely find it empty or spilled in the playroom. I have little faith it will actually make it into the sink, but the call could be Jack, so I accept the risk.

“Hello,” I pant into the receiver, leaning against the arm of the couch.

“Hi, this is Judy with Dr. Banks office, is Mr. Carrington available?”

My brow scrunches together in confusion, our family doctor is Dr. Perry and we haven’t been to the doctor in several months. “Mr. Carrington is out of town on business. This is his wife; is there something I can assist you with?” I tell her.

“Let me just check the file to make sure you are listed as a person we can release medical information to.” She then places me on hold and I feel a ball of nerves knot in my stomach. I can’t think of a reason why Jack would go to the doctor and not at least let me know. I feel uneasy about the possibilities. Is he sick and afraid to tell me? My mind swims with horrific outcomes of brain tumors or early onset Alzheimer’s when Judy’s voice pulls me out of my anxiety.

“Ma’am, we do have you listed as an emergency contact. I just had a few questions regarding the billing of your husband’s procedure.”

My heart races and my brain replays any moments with Jack over the last few months that would indicate a procedure. Stiches, pain, anything that would clue me in, but I come up short-handed.