Chapter 1: When Dreams Shatter Like Glass
My name is Elizabeth—Liz to those who knew me before everything fell apart. At thirty-five, I thought I had mapped out the geography of my life: a loving husband, a house with good bones and better memories, and someday, the sound of children’s laughter echoing through rooms that waited patiently to be filled.

But life, I’ve learned, has a cruel sense of humor about our carefully laid plans.

The morning Tom left me, I was standing in our kitchen making coffee—the same kitchen where we’d shared thousands of breakfasts, where we’d talked about baby names over Sunday pancakes, where I’d cried into his shoulder month after month when the pregnancy tests came back negative. The coffee maker gurgled its familiar tune, and for a moment, everything felt normal.

“I can’t wait anymore,” he said, not even looking up from his newspaper. His voice was flat, emotionless, like he was commenting on the weather or the stock market.

Just like that. Four years of trying, of hoping, of enduring fertility treatments that cost more than our car and hurt more than I ever thought possible—dismissed in five words.