The official diagnosis came on a Monday. I remember because Ben and I had tickets to a concert that Friday, and I spent the drive home wondering if we should still go.
We didn’t.
“You can’t give me the family I want,” my husband muttered a few weeks later, a duffel bag already at his feet. Ben wouldn’t look at me. He just kept staring at the light switch by the door as if it could soften the blow.
“So that’s it,” I said.
“Kim, don’t make this harder.”
“Harder for whom? You knew infertility was a possibility; I mean, look at me?!”
He left before I could answer my own question.
Raymond showed up that same night with two pizzas.
I hadn’t called him. I hadn’t called anyone.
But there he was on my porch in his beat-up jacket, looking at me the way he’d looked at me since college, as if I were something worth showing up for.
“What’s wrong, Kimberley? Where’s Ben?” he asked when he saw the tears and my puffy face.
“Raymond, Ben left. I couldn’t give him children because of my dwarfism.”
Then I cried.
Warning signs of a heart attack?
9 Foot Symptoms You Should Never Ignore: What They Could Mean
Country Music legend dead at 86
Full part: On my wedding night, I had to give my bed to my mother-in-law because she was “dug”; the next morning I found something glued to the sheet that left me speechless.ad
For thirty-five years, my husband shared with me the same drink every night.
