Good Intentions| Editing

Epilogue

Three Years Later

Waiting was the worst part.

Because in that waiting period, my hopes went up. Every time I took the damn test, my hopes went up. Even though I already knew what the answer was going to be. When the first test came up negative, I had an inkling I would never get pregnant. Harry told me to keeps my hopes up, no matter how small the chance of getting pregnant was. Harry was the one thing that persuaded me to keep taking these damn tests. I loved him and would do anything for the man. Even if it meant going through a pain no women should go through.

But after three years of trying, I was just drained.

I took the stupid supplements Harry bought for me. I went to the doctor for an exam. I changed my diet, had good hygiene, and tried to reduce my stress. But nothing worked. The doctors told me that the lack of fertility wasn't from Harry- he was perfectly fine. But they still couldn't find out why my reproductive system wasn't working. My hopes of having a baby fell down the drain, and it pained me to know that I couldn't give Harry children.

But Harry insisted we kept trying because, "Miracles do exist, Arabella."

I sit on the toilet, my hands tapping themselves against my leg, counting down the minutes for the results to show up. I told Harry to wait outside because even after three years of marriage, I still couldn't pee in front of him. He knew that was a lie. But I didn't care. I just wanted to cry alone as a barren woman when the test came up negative.

Like it always does.

A knock sounds on the bathroom door. "Arabella, it's been five minutes." Harry says trying the handle of the door. But I locked it. I hear him sigh then his footsteps walking away from the door. He knew that this whole pregnancy was taking a toll on me. I was more irritable with him, and just had a horrible outlook on life. I absolutely loathed  the fact that I couldn't give Harry the one thing he wanted in life. I hated myself because I couldn't give him his own child.

I stand up from the toilet and walk over to the sink. The two tests that I took were resting facedown on the counter, staring up at me like little devils. I hated these things. A piece of plastic decided my future with Harry. My hand shakily lifts up the first test. I take a breath before turning it over.

Negative.

My hopes sink farther than the floor. They fall all the way down to the pits of hell.

I don't even bother turning over the second test. Because I know what it will say. It will say the same thing the tests always do.

Resting my hands against the counter, I let the tears fall. Ever since I married Harry three years ago, I wanted children. Becoming Harry's wife made me look at life in a different perspective. I knew that with Harry, I could make a family that I could support and love and shove into every other mother's face.

But because my body was a total fuckup, that couldn't happen.

I couldn't have a kid that had Harry's curls or his emerald eyes. I couldn't have a child that I could call mine. I couldn't braid my daughter's hair, teach her how to cook, or support during her first period. I couldn't teach my son how to always be a kind person like his father, or send him off to college with a box of condoms in his bag.

I couldn't give Harry a family. He would be the best father. I could just picture him with his hands on my belly singing to the baby, or feeling it kick. I could see him patching up his son's scraped knees or yelling at his daughter when she first had sex. All he wanted was a family. But I couldn't give him that.

"Arabella?" I hear his soft voice from outside the door.

I wipe away the tears and try to shake away all my thoughts. Opening the bathroom door, Harry stands there in his usual black attire and is sporting a hopeful look. His hair is now touching his shoulders. He wanted to cut it, but I said no because he looked like a prince. Once Harry sees my tears, his hopefulness disappears.