Invisible String

2

---

I barely slept that night.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw numbers — 13 eggs retrieved, and now it all depended on how many fertilized. My stomach still ached, sore and bloated, and the heating pad had basically become part of me. Travis was up early, already in the kitchen, making coffee we both knew I wouldn’t drink. My appetite had disappeared somewhere around the third ultrasound.

We sat side by side on the couch, both of us staring at my phone like it was a bomb about to go off.

“I keep telling myself it doesn’t matter what the number is,” I said softly. “But it does. Doesn’t it?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just reached over and threaded his fingers through mine. “It matters because it matters to you.”

The phone rang.

I flinched so hard I nearly dropped it, but Travis steadied my hand. I answered with a breath caught in my throat.

“Hi Taylor, this is Dr. Levin from the clinic…”

I didn’t realize I’d stopped breathing until Travis squeezed my knee.

“Of the 13 eggs retrieved,” she continued, “11 were mature. We performed ICSI on all 11. This morning, 6 successfully fertilized.”

I mouthed six to Travis, and he nodded, hopeful. But my stomach twisted.

“We’ll watch them closely over the next few days,” the doctor said. “I’ll call you again with a day-three update.”

I hung up and let the silence fall again.

“Six isn’t bad,” Travis said gently. “Right?”

I nodded, but the truth was I didn’t know what was good anymore. I didn’t know what to hope for without getting crushed.

---

Three days later, the update came. Only three were still developing normally.

Day five, we had one blastocyst.

One.

We froze it, scheduled the transfer, and tried — desperately — not to put all of our hearts in that one fragile hope.

The morning of the transfer, I wore a sweater I’d once bought for cozy songwriting days. It didn’t feel lucky, but I needed something that felt familiar.

The transfer itself was quick. Clinical. Cold. A gray and white screen, a tiny dot they said was our embryo, and then a nurse whispering, “It’s in.”

I reached for Travis’s hand. He held it tight. “You’re doing amazing.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

---

The two-week wait that followed was the longest of my life. Every cramp, every twinge, every emotion — I analyzed everything.

Travis stayed calm. He cooked. He watched movies with me. He answered my middle-of-the-night spirals with sleepy reassurances and gentle hugs.

But when the phone finally rang again, I already knew.

It was negative.

I sat on the edge of the bathtub while the nurse gave me the results. I didn’t cry until I hung up. And then I sobbed, bent over, arms wrapped around my stomach like I could protect something that had never even had the chance to grow.

Travis found me there, his expression breaking as he dropped to the tile and wrapped himself around me like armor.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”