Invisible String

1

Taylor

I don’t know why I didn’t ask Travis to come with me.
Maybe it was pride. Or maybe it was because I truly believed this appointment would be quick, routine, uneventful — just a green light to start dreaming. I was wrong.

The room smelled like hand sanitizer and paper gowns. I sat there on the crinkly exam table, legs swinging like a kid, wedding band still shiny and new on my finger. The kind of day where everything feels full of possibility. I'd even worn a soft pink sweater, because I was feeling gentle, hopeful… ready.

Married. Finally. After everything.
And now we were ready for the next step — the part where you make something together that’s half him, half me. Something loud and soft and ours.

“So,” I said cheerfully when Dr. Rhodes walked in, clipboard in hand, “we just got married last month and I wanted to make sure I’m all clear to start trying. No surprises, right?”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. And suddenly, I knew.
I knew before she said anything. My stomach dropped.

“Taylor,” she began, her voice kind. Too kind. “Your hormone levels from last week’s blood work… they’re lower than we expected.”

I blinked. “Okay… What does that mean?”

She took a seat across from me, her eyes locking onto mine, serious now. “It means your ovarian reserve is significantly diminished. Your egg count is low for your age. Getting pregnant naturally may be difficult — and in some cases, unlikely.”

I stared at her, willing myself to process the words. They came slowly, like a song in the wrong key. Off. Wrong.

Low ovarian reserve. Difficult. Unlikely.
I felt the edges of my vision blur, like a camera lens twisting too fast to find focus.

“Oh,” I whispered.
I didn’t know what else to say.
Just oh.

I wish Travis had been there.

I wish I had someone to grab my hand in that moment, someone to press their forehead to mine and tell me this wasn’t the end of our story. I could already picture the look on his face — that mix of tenderness and protectiveness he wears so well — and the way he’d hold me after, no matter how long it took me to cry it all out.

But he wasn’t there.
Just me and a pile of hope unraveling at my feet.

“I’m so sorry,” Dr. Rhodes said gently, her words distant, as if through a wall. “There are options — IVF, egg retrieval, hormone therapy — but I want you to be emotionally prepared. This might not be a straight road for you.”

I nodded like I understood, but I didn’t.
All I could think was, this wasn’t how it was supposed to start.

---

I didn’t schedule anything.
Not a single follow-up. No hormone plans. No IVF consultation.

Not without Travis.

I shook my head when the nurse offered to go over next steps. Mumbled something about needing time, needing to talk to my husband. And then I walked out. Fast. Before the polite voices and sterile walls and silent sympathy could suffocate me.

The cool air hit me like a slap when the doors slid open. It was early fall in New York — crisp, golden — but my skin felt clammy, my throat dry. I fumbled with my keys, finally finding the right one, and slid into the driver’s seat of the black SUV we shared.

And that’s when the tears started.

I didn’t even try to stop them.
I just sat there in the parking garage, both hands gripping the steering wheel like it might anchor me, like it could hold together all the tiny pieces I felt cracking inside. My forehead dropped to the leather, my wedding ring pressing against the wheel.