At first, that longing existed quietly within our marriage. Then it became loud.
Then it became brutal.
It affected everything.
At first, there was hope.
Then calendars on the refrigerator.
Ovulation kits tucked away in bathroom drawers. Specialists.
Blood tests.
Procedures.
Hormones.
Silent rides home.
Eventually, it became the kind of grief people struggle to comfort because no one has died, yet something seems to die every month anyway.
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We went through IVF twice.
Before the first transfer, Laura bought a tiny pair of white socks because she said she wanted to believe early.
Before the second one, she bought nothing.
Both attempts failed.
Then came additional doctors, more tests, and costly conversations filled with percentages and odds that somehow never made heartbreak feel any more scientific.
Eventually, the doctors told us natural conception was highly unlikely.
The precise wording varied from one specialist to another.
The meaning never changed.
I watched Laura take in the news like someone standing completely still in freezing rain.
She didn’t fall apart.
She thanked the doctor.
A few months before our tenth anniversary, she finally told me she wanted to stop trying.
“I’m tired, Richard,” she said one night in bed, staring at the ceiling. “I’m tired of building my whole future around what never happens.”
I reached for her hand.
“Then we stop.”
Two years later, Laura surprised me again.
“I think I want to leave the airline.”
She had spent so much of her adult life in the air that I struggled to picture her permanently on the ground.
But she gave me a tired little smile.
“I want a quieter life with you. Maybe that’s enough now. I’ll figure out the rest later.”
Her retirement paperwork progressed faster than either of us expected.
One final rotation.
One last flight.
Then she would be done with jump seats, jet lag, and rosters issued three weeks ahead of time.
Done missing anniversaries.
That final part mattered because her last flight happened to fall on ours.
Laura kept apologizing for it, which was ridiculous but completely typical of her.
“I’m sorry,” she said the night before, hanging her uniform up for the final time. “Twelve years married and somehow I still managed to spend the day in the air.”
I kissed the back of her neck.
“You’re coming home the next day; we can celebrate then.”
She smiled.
“Okay. We’ll do dinner tomorrow.”
I agreed.
But I already had another plan.
It was her final flight, our anniversary, and the closing of an entire chapter in her life.
I wanted to surprise her.
Laura had spent years creating small moments for other people.
She upgraded honeymooners whenever she could.
Found birthday cupcakes for nervous children.
Remembered passengers’ names.
