Chapter 3: The Conversation

Ten Days of Silence

“Listen, I want to tell you something,” she says, playing with her fork among the vegetables on her plate, scratching it with an unbearable sound. She always does that when she’s tense. “I haven’t really thought this through, I admit, but it’s something that crossed my mind.” She finally puts a slice of cucumber in her mouth.

Almost ten days have passed since that meeting with the doctor. Ten days in which she’s barely spoken a word to me. This, despite the promise she made right after we got the news - that we were in this together, that I wasn’t alone no matter what.

And yet, each passing day, I could feel her disappointment growing. Her confusion. Maybe even anger?

Sperm Donation

I nod my head, signaling her to continue. I hate when she makes these long introductions instead of just speaking directly. It always gives me the feeling she’s not sure about what she wants to say, as if she’s asking my permission for something she hasn’t even said yet.

“I have a friend who had a child through sperm donation”—the last two words she whispers, as if she’s saying something forbidden.

I freeze. I know all her friends—none of them ever did that.“Someone from work. Just a passing acquaintance, a ‘good morning’ type… I could talk to her.”

My fork, loaded with food, stops in midair. That last sentence catches me completely off guard.

Is this really the first full sentence she’s spoken to me after ten days of silence? Ten days I’ve been trying to process everything happening to us, while she played her silence game -and the first thing she says is that she’s ready to tell strangers that I’m infertile?

Doesn’t she understand how people look at men like me? Doesn’t she realize the shame?

I chew the rest of my food quietly, but every bite feels like torture. I finish eating and slowly get up from the table.

The Balcony

“So what do you say?” she asks as I place the dishes in the sink.

I turn to look at her. I open my mouth as if to answer. I want to ask her where she’s been all week.

What was more important than being here for me? I want to tell her I can’t believe she thought of sharing this with other people. I want to ask if she even cares how I feel about the news we got.

But no sound comes out.

“Fine,” I whisper in surrender. “Talk to her.”

I hate myself for that answer. But then the guilt crashes in - what right do I even have to be angry with her? I’m the one who can’t get her pregnant. The problem is mine. So what right do I have to be angry at all?

Without waiting for her response, I walk out to the balcony. I don’t know why, but in the moments I expected us to be the closest, it feels like an entire world is separating us.

I lean on the railing and take a long drag from my cigarette. As I exhale slowly, the balcony door opens behind me.

I turn and see her standing there, eyes burning with anger. “Why are you lying to me?”