When I got home from work, I found a stroller on our lawn—wrapped in a bow, filled with yellow lilies. My heart pounded. Arthur, my husband, had once said, “I want to travel, Vic. Kids don’t fit that life.” So I never brought it up again.
What he didn’t know was the truth I’d buried deep: I can’t have children. I carried that pain alone, thinking it didn’t matter.
But this stroller… it changed everything. Inside was a note in his handwriting: “I’m ready, Vic. Let’s start trying for a baby. I love you.”
Tears blurred the words. My phone rang. It was Arthur, thrilled. I could only whisper, “I’m so sorry.” He rushed home.
I tried to act normal, but he saw right through me. “Talk to me,” he said. I broke down. “I can’t have kids. I thought I was protecting us.”
He held me tight. “You should never have carried this alone,” he whispered. “We’ll build a family our way—through love. No matter how.”
He placed the flowers in a vase. “Let this remind us,” I said, “of what we’re creating—together.”
He smiled. “No more secrets.”
“I promise.”
