When you’ve been trying to get pregnant for two years, your life starts to revolve around numbers. Cycle days. Hormone levels. Bank balances.

Last year, Daniel and I agreed that we were all in. We were sitting in a diner, eating the softest pancakes and drinking bitter coffee, and we just knew.

IVF was our next step.

It wasn’t just a plan. It was a promise. We cut back on everything.

No vacations. No birthday splurges. I took on extra freelance work. Daniel picked up overtime shifts. Every time we deposited money into the IVF fund, we’d clink our mugs and say, “One step closer to Baby!”

It was cheesy as hell, but it felt like a mantra of sorts. A good omen. And after trying for so long, I wasn’t above being superstitious this time. Everything needed to be perfect. And we needed to be serious.

I cried the morning we hit $18,000. Not because it was a lot of money—though it was. But because it was hope—finally, tangible hope. The kind I hadn’t allowed myself in a long time.

We were getting closer.

"I can almost see it," I said, smiling at Daniel. "Soon, we'll be parents, and every single sacrifice will have been worth all the tears."

Then, three weeks ago, my husband told me he had a conference out of state.

"It's just for a week," he said. "But it will go by so quickly. Besides, you can have some time for yourself."

The morning he left, Daniel stood in our bedroom in a button-up shirt he rarely wore and kissed me goodbye.

"We're so close. Just a little longer, babe. We're going to have a mini-Daniel or a mini-Claire running around soon!"

But he had no idea what he’d just set in motion.

A few days before Daniel was scheduled to come home, I sat at our dining room table with my laptop, a bowl of grapes, and a mug of raspberry tea. I was trying to book our consultation at the clinic when I opened our joint account. I wanted to be sure about how much we had. I wanted to have all the answers in case the clinic had questions.

Balance: $311.09.

I stared at the figure like it was a typo I was trying to understand. I refreshed the page. Three times. Same number.

I didn’t know what else to do other than call the bank. There had to be an explanation, and I would find it.

My voice shook as I tried to explain.

"There's been a mistake," I said after giving my details. "It’s a savings account for a medical procedure. We’ve been adding to it all year."

The rep was kind but firm.

"Let me see what I can find, ma’am," he said. "Give me a second."

That moment of silence felt like an eternity.

"Ma’am, these withdrawals have been authorized by a Daniel R. Your husband?"

So, it wasn’t a mistake? It was all planned.

The next few days were a blur of cold coffee, sleepless nights, and me pretending everything was fine. I went through the motions. I worked, cooked, and replied to emails... but it was like living underwater.

I folded laundry while picturing the nursery I'd imagined. Pale green walls, white stuffed animals, a rocking chair, and a tiny bookshelf filled with dog-eared copies of the same children’s books I’d loved.

I had a name picked out, too. No one knew. Not even Daniel. I whispered it once while brushing my teeth, just to hear it out loud. It would be perfect for either a little girl or a boy.

And now... nothing.

Just silence. It was as though all the hope inside me had vanished.

Instead, there was just a heavy, hollow ache where hope used to live.

I didn’t confront him when he came home. Daniel was all tan and relaxed, and the faint scent of coconut and betrayal clung to his skin. I watched him put his suitcase down in the middle of the living room.

He yawned loudly and stretched out on the couch, grinning like he’d just conquered the world.

"My God, work trips are exhausting."

I just stared at him.

But instead of screaming, I smiled.

"You’ve been so stressed out with work lately, Daniel," I said. "Especially after a work conference, too. Maybe we should take a trip. Just us. Somewhere peaceful... somewhere to reset before IVF."

His eyes lit up.

"That sounds amazing, Claire," he said. "You’re the best!"

"I know," I smiled. "It does sound great. I think we need it, too."

That night, while Daniel snored beside me, I lay awake watching the ceiling fan turn. I scrolled through my phone, but instead of looking at baby things, I found myself looking at Daniel’s tagged photos on social media. And there they were.

Him at the beach with his friends. When he was supposed to be "working." There were even a few of their girlfriends around, showing off their perfect bodies in their perfect bikinis.

I imagined all the things I wanted to say. All the ways I could hurt him.

And then I started planning.

The mountain spa resort I picked looked like something out of a glossy travel magazine. Glass walls, hot stone massages, infinity pools that kissed the treetops.

It was expensive, but I paid for it myself, out of my savings.

On the second morning, I woke him up before dawn.

"Let’s hike to the overlook," I said. "Let’s watch the sunrise!"

He groaned, rubbed his face, and pulled on a hoodie.

"You’re lucky I love you, Claire," he grumbled.

We stopped at a clearing, the overlook spreading wide beneath us like a secret the mountain had been keeping.

"Hey," he said, coming closer. "You good?"

"You know what’s funny?" I asked, not turning.

"You dragging me out here at five in the morning?" he grinned.

"No," I said quietly. "I always imagined us doing this together. Not the hike, but starting our family. Naming our baby. You holding my hand through IVF. You whispering ‘we’ve got this, Claire’ while I cried in a clinic bathroom."

His grin faltered.

"Instead, I got a lie and a bank account with three hundred bucks. You got a tan and a vacation."

I turned to him then, the weight of two years pressing into my spine.

"I’m leaving," I said.

"You’re leaving me here?" his voice cracked.

"I’m hiking down alone, Daniel. I can’t stand you right now."

That night, I checked into the spa, ordered a cappuccino, took a long shower, and booked