Chapter 2: The Flashback

I gave a bitter smile, lips twisting as I glanced around. A couple of nurses pretended to check charts, but their eyes flicked over—half sympathy, half judgment. I’d never felt so exposed in a hospital before.

I knew the truth about the past five months: separate beds, her careful routine, awkward goodnights. If anyone knew whether there’d been intimacy, it was me.

Ever since IVF started, Shanna was extra careful, always reminding me—no sex, doctor’s orders.

Her reminders echoed: sticky notes on the fridge, texts at bedtime, even a pamphlet taped above her side of the bed with the warning underlined in red Sharpie. I used to tease her for being so literal.

I’d tap her nose and joke, "You really listen to the doctor, huh?"

She’d wrinkle her nose, batting her lashes, the corners of her mouth curling up. "Sure, but you’re my favorite doctor anyway."

Her voice was playful, her fingers tracing slow circles on my chest—reminding me that, even with IVF, we were still us.

After starting ovarian stimulation, she got even more cautious—shuffling in slippers, hand on her belly, switching her morning coffee for chamomile tea.

I tried to reassure her. "Just live your life, babe. If you baby yourself too much, we’ll both go nuts."

And now, someone was telling me she’d thrown caution aside the night before surgery?

It was unthinkable. I shook my head, trying to push away the doubt curling in my stomach.

The egg retrieval failed. The hallway filled with the sound of rolling gurneys, muted voices. The hope we’d carried in crumbled.

A nurse called my name, and I hurried over. Shanna was wheeled out, pale beneath the blanket, still unconscious from anesthesia. I gently brushed her hair from her face, careful not to disturb the IV.

Even without makeup, her freckles stood out, lips parted in sleep. She looked heartbreakingly fragile. I stared at her, lost in thought.

I remembered the first time I saw her—peaceful, open, not knowing how much I’d care. That feeling of protectiveness and confusion surged again.

We met on a blind date. My mom’s idea, after three weeks of calls. I checked her photo before walking into that little bistro on Fourth. The place smelled like garlic bread and cheap wine; my scrubs still reeked of sanitizer.

I was late—emergency surgery, a post-op obstruction. By the time I got to the restaurant, my hair was a mess and my scrubs smelled of coffee and hospital air.

Most blind dates would’ve left by then, but Shanna was still there, smiling, pouring me lemon water as I sat down. Her patience and kindness cut through my exhaustion.

She was exactly my type—black pencil skirt, rose-red lips, art teacher, full of stories about her students and her favorite painters. She talked about sketching sunsets, dreaming of visiting every museum in the country.

I tried to play it cool, but by dessert I was already picturing a future: lazy weekends, coffee on the porch, maybe even a dog.

Three months later, we married. Kids? We figured we’d just see what happened. But after a year, still nothing. The silence in the nursery grew heavier, the questions from our parents more pointed.

I started reading research, double-checking my health, reassuring her we’d figure it out. Eventually, she confessed: in college, she’d had an ectopic pregnancy and lost a fallopian tube.

She told me curled up on the couch, voice barely a whisper, eyes shining with tears. "Even with one tube, some women get pregnant naturally. I shouldn’t have kept it from you. I just… I was afraid you’d leave."

Her vulnerability broke something open in me. I held her close, promising she’d never have to doubt my love.

She showed me her phone, her call logs, her ex’s Messenger—no secrets, nothing hidden. "If you mind, I’ll block him."

I waved it off. "If I start making social media rules, we’ll both go crazy."

We all have a past. Love is about trust, not ultimatums.

We tried for another year. Still nothing. Finally, Shanna suggested IVF. I hesitated, wanting to try every natural option first, but she was determined. "The longer we wait, the harder it gets. Let’s just do IVF now."

I worried about the pain she’d have to endure. She just smiled, curling up next to me. "I’m scared, but if I get to have your baby, it’s worth it. I don’t care about being a strong, independent woman. I just want to be your spoiled wife."

She kissed me, and I melted. I handed her my debit card without hesitation. If she’s the one getting poked and prodded, the least I can do is foot the bill.

We spent hours on the phone with insurance just to get on the calendar. The paperwork alone could drive anyone mad, but Shanna faced it all with a smile.

Maybe it was her attitude. Other women looked exhausted, but Shanna dressed up for every appointment, humming in the waiting room, always sketching in her notebook. She made the nurses laugh, made me believe we could get through anything.

Last night, I’d planned to swap night shifts to stay with her. I bought her cinnamon rolls, set an early alarm. But she insisted I stick to my routine—said she’d feel too much pressure if I hovered.

And now, the idea that she’d spent a passionate night with someone else? It didn’t fit. I scrolled through memories, searching for clues—a nervous laugh, a text answered too slowly. Nothing added up.

The urge to storm off was strong, but I stayed, rooted by love and confusion. I picked up her phone, unlocking it with her fingerprint. No cleared chats, no suspicious messages.

Her ex’s Messenger was empty except for a "happy birthday" he’d sent last month. She hadn’t replied. His Facebook was filled with family photos—nothing from her.

My instincts told me her ex wasn’t the one.

So who was?

I leaned back, rubbing my temples, the question gnawing at me. Somewhere in this hospital, the truth was waiting. And I wasn’t leaving until I found it.