To the child we can’t conceive,

Since I was a child myself, I have dreamed of you.

It was so easy then. You were to be one of many, and I’d change your name daily. Some days, I couldn’t choose between 5 names, so 4 siblings you would have. Other days, just 1 name stuck, so an only child you would be.

During my teen years, you became an item on my ‘To Do’ list. You were something I could schedule depending on my chosen career. When I wanted to be a vet, you would be pushed out to 27, when I decided I wanted to be a teacher, you got bumped up to 24.

The years that followed, you were something to avoid, to actively discourage. A lot of time and planning went in to ensuring you never came to pass.

Then I met your Father, and you became the future. We would spend days listing names that we would give you, hobbies we would show you, colours we would paint your room. You were safely ahead of us, along the road.

When your Father and I married, you became the goal, the prize we would win on our honeymoon. We felt closer to you with every day that passed. Soon you would be conceived, and we would relish watching you grow.

You then became sadness. You became the disappointment each month, the endless tests at the hospital, the crushing blow of reality.

You became the unobtainable, the unrealised. You became the depression that crushed me, and the anger that weakened your Dad. You became the presence that isolated us from those around us.

Now, you are the reason that tears fill our eyes when we see a pregnancy announcement. You’re the reason the happiness, which once filled our home, is missing. The reason that we are losing ourselves, and each other. The missing piece.

You are the child we can’t conceive.

You are infertility.

Signed, your parents.

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