My phone rang. It was Arthur. “Did you see it?” he asked, excited. I could barely answer through my tears. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered. Alarmed, he told me he was coming home right away.
By the time Arthur walked in, I was trying to keep busy in the kitchen, pretending everything was fine. But he saw through me. “Talk to me,” he said gently. And I finally broke. “Arthur, I can’t have children. I’ve known for years. I didn’t tell you because I thought it didn’t matter. I thought I was protecting us.”
He stared at me for a moment, processing. Then he pulled me into a tight embrace. “You should never have carried this alone,” he said. “We’re in this together. We can still build a family—adoption, fostering, whatever feels right. But if it’s just us, that’s more than enough too.”
Later, he brought the stroller inside and placed the flowers in a vase. “Let it be a reminder,” I said, “of what we’re building together—however that looks.” Arthur nodded, his voice steady. “And from now on, no more secrets. We carry everything together.” I smiled through fresh tears. “I promise.”