It was difficult to reconcile my inadequacies as a female. What good was I if my body couldn’t do the normal functioning it was created to do? What was so wrong with me that I was chosen not to be blessed with a child when it came so easily to others that didn’t deserve it at all?

Years of recovery got me to a stage of acceptance. That path wasn’t destined for me but that didn’t mean my love and attention had to go to waste, because I had so much to give.

I poured all that extra focus into the sick kids I cared for, which fulfilled my days with enough light to keep out the dark.

Yet, that logo. That tiny pink logo had me relapsing fast.

With my fingers trembling I ripped the envelope open, my eyes racing over the letter addressed to my husband.

I wish I didn’t.

Crippling pain electrified my nervous system with each word and sentence that I read.

“As per your request please find your test results disclosed below…”

His full STD panel was negative…but that’s not what broke me. That was left to the ending paragraph that wrapped up the intimate letter with a lovely soul-destroying bow.

“Based on your latest semen analysis your vasectomy remains viable after thirteen years. However, this is not a failsafe method to verify paternity. If you require further clarification, we also offer accurate and discreet DNA tests…”

Black invaded my vision, blocking out the hurtful words screaming from the page.

I don’t want to see anymore. Please don’t let me see anymore.

As if answering my desperate call, my brain shut everything down.

All I remember was falling.

Fingers pressed the inside of my wrist, while someone stroked my hair.

My eyes fluttered open to my husband hovering above me. But there was something wrong. He looked stressed, his eyes wide with panic as his brows scrunched together.

A tinged haze coated my senses, blocking me from something, as if in protection.

Hypnotised, my hand raised to smooth the harsh lines of his face. “What’s wrong, honey?”

Nico gasped then dragged me into his lap, squeezing so tight I could hardly breath. His lips scattered kisses down my face, his tone urgent and rushed.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Fucking hell, Gabs. You gave me a heart attack. I walked in the door and found you unconscious. Don’t ever do that to me again. I thought I fucking lost you. I can never lose you. Fuck, babe.”

He was trembling, shock had him overtaken.

Slowly, ever so slowly the haze began to lift.

Floor? Why was I on the floor? Why did I have this sense of dread in my gut that made me want to vomit? Why did my husband’s touch make that feeling worse?