Never Need Me to Give Him a Child

The needle pierced my skin, sending a sharp jolt through my body. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, tasting blood as another hormone injection burned its way into my system.

"Just a little more," Dr. Patel said, her voice clinically detached as she pushed the plunger down. "This is the final one for today."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. My abdomen felt bloated and tender, my ovaries swollen to twice their normal size. Five years of this—five years of needles, hormones, procedures, and disappointment.

"The retrieval went well," she continued, removing the needle and pressing a cotton ball to the injection site. "We collected eight eggs this time. That's an improvement."

An improvement. As if quantity mattered when none had ever resulted in a pregnancy.

"And Orion?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. "He couldn't make it again?"

Dr. Patel's expression softened slightly. "I'm sorry, Katty. He called to say he had an urgent meeting that couldn't be rescheduled."

I nodded again, swallowing the familiar lump in my throat. Orion's "urgent meetings" had become as regular as my hormone injections.

"The lab will fertilize the eggs tonight," Dr. Patel continued, making notes in my file. "We'll transfer two embryos in three days. Try to stay positive."

Positive. As if that would make my broken body work any better.

"Will Orion be at the transfer?" she asked.

"He'll try," I lied, knowing he wouldn't. He never did.

I dressed slowly after the procedure, each movement sending waves of pain through my abdomen. The fertility clinic's waiting room was filled with women who looked either hopeful or defeated—I recognized both expressions in the mirror.

Orion hadn't even bothered to call. Not a text, not an email. Nothing.

I walked home alone through the city streets, my body aching and my spirit crushed under the weight of another failed attempt. The spring air felt warm against my face, but I couldn't feel it inside me where it mattered.

As I rounded the corner near the small park three blocks from our apartment, children's laughter floated toward me. I paused, drawn to the sound despite myself.

A little boy with dark curls was toddling across the grass, his tiny legs still unsteady. He couldn't have been more than three years old.

"Careful, Ethan!" A woman's voice called out, gentle and concerned.

I watched as she caught up to him, lifting him into her arms. She was beautiful—delicate features, honey-blonde hair falling in waves around her shoulders, her body curved in all the right places.

And then I saw him.

Orion.

My husband of five years was kneeling in the grass, his hands outstretched toward the child. "Come here, buddy! Give daddy a hug!"

The boy wobbled toward him, arms outstretched. "Daddy!"

Orion swept him up, pressing kisses to his cheeks, his eyes alight with joy. "There's my big boy! Did you miss daddy?"

"Uh-huh!" The boy nodded enthusiastically, wrapping his chubby arms around Orion's neck.

The woman—his