Chapter 2

That word was like a thorn, embedding itself deep in my heart.

I searched the internet endlessly, getting more terrified with every article I read.

I asked him if he really thought there was something wrong with me.

He just snorted and said, "Look in the mirror. You know the answer."

A year into our marriage, he started pressuring me to have a baby.

He said his college friends already had toddlers, and his mother kept asking.

I agreed. We started trying.

But after six months of trying, nothing happened.

He screamed at me. "It’s all your fault! If you weren’t so damn tense every time, I wouldn’t be under this much pressure! If I were with anyone else, she’d be pregnant by now!"

I stood in the corner of the room, my ears ringing.

So, to him, I was just a broken incubator.

I put my interior design projects on hold and handed my clients over to my colleagues.

Then, I secretly booked an appointment with a therapist.

The therapist asked me what was wrong.

I sat there for a long time before I could finally choke out my story.

She handed me a tissue and waited until I calmed down.

"Clara, does your husband treat you well in daily life?"

I froze.

Well?

I remembered how he had yelled at me for ten straight minutes that morning just because his shirt had a tiny crease.

I replayed that memory in my head over and over.

Finally, I said, "He... just has a bad temper sometimes."

The therapist didn’t push.

She taught me some relaxation techniques and asked me to track my emotions before our next session.

I went back four times.

I always sneaked out while Jared was at work, terrified he would find out.

I was scared he would call me crazy, or tell me that therapy was a waste of money because I was hopeless anyway.

During my fourth session, the therapist said something that shook me.

"Clara, have you ever considered that your body freezing up is actually a defense mechanism against how your husband treats you?"

I didn’t answer her.

Because I had never looked at it from that angle.

I had always blamed myself. I thought I was too repressed, too abnormal, and simply not good enough for him.

But her words planted a seed in my mind.

After that session, I paused the therapy.

Because Jared demanded we start IVF.

He said natural conception was too slow. He couldn't wait, and his mother couldn't wait either.

Looking at his anxious face, a thought crossed my mind.

If we have a baby, will he treat me better?

So I agreed.

Before IVF, there were endless tests. They drew seven vials of my blood, did ultrasounds, and ran hormone panels.

The OBGYN, a warm woman in her fifties, reviewed my files from start to finish, then looked up at me.

"Your levels are perfect, and your ovarian reserve is excellent. You are fully capable of getting pregnant naturally."

She paused, looking straight into my eyes. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with you."

On my way home, I kept thinking about how to break the news to him.

I wanted to tell him that the doctor said I was fine, that we didn't need IVF, and we could just try naturally.

I thought he would be happy.

And if he was happy, maybe he would be nicer to me.

But he was already cheating.

I sat in the living room for hours.

I opened the Notes app on my phone. It was filled with lists.

When Jared’s allergy meds expired, when the utility bills were due, his parents' birthdays, and what gifts to buy them.

For three years, there was not a single note about myself.

I got up and walked into the master bedroom.

The bed was a total mess.

The pillows were on the floor, the duvet was tangled, and the sheets were wrinkled with unmistakable stains.

Standing at the doorway, my stomach churned with intense disgust.