Two years after Allison finished chemotherapy, our freezer still contained two embryos.
Not the kitchen freezer.
That would have been horrifying.
They were stored at the fertility clinic in a temperature-controlled tank with identification numbers, consent forms, annual fees, and more paperwork than seemed reasonable for something microscopic.
Still, in our house, we called them the embryos.
Not our babies.
Not future children.
Not guarantees.
The embryos.
Possibility preserved in plural.
By then, Mateo was almost three.
He had dark hair, endless questions, and a theory that every truck on the road personally belonged to him.
“Mine truck.”
“That is a city garbage truck.”
“Mine.”
“Taxpayers may disagree.”
“Mine.”
Allison laughed from the passenger seat.
“He got that from you.”
“I have never claimed municipal property.”
“You claimed the left side of the closet for nine years.”
“That was negotiated territory.”
Mateo shouted, “Mine closet.”
We both laughed.
Normal life had become so normal again that sometimes cancer felt like a country we had once lived in.
Then surveillance week arrived and the border reopened.
Every six months now.
Blood work.
Scan.
Dr. Mehta.
The intervals had lengthened.
That was good.
It was also unsettling.
At first, three months had felt cruelly frequent.
Now six months felt dangerously long.
Fear adjusted to whatever schedule it was given.
Allison’s latest scan was clear.
Tumor markers normal.
Dr. Mehta used words we had once been afraid to trust.
Remission.
Excellent response.
Encouraging prognosis.
Then she asked, “Have you thought more about pregnancy?”
The room changed.
Allison sat straighter.
“Yes.”
I looked at her.
That was news.
Not entirely.
We had talked.
But not lately.
Dr. Mehta nodded.
“You are approaching a point where I’m comfortable discussing it medically.”
Allison’s fingers tightened around mine.
“Comfortable meaning safe?”
“I would not use safe as an absolute.”
Of course not.
Doctors hated absolutes.
So had we, eventually.
“Your surveillance has remained reassuring. There is no evidence of disease.”
Allison nodded.
“And pregnancy wouldn’t increase recurrence risk?”
“For your specific tumor type, we do not have evidence that pregnancy itself increases recurrence risk.”
“BRCA?”
“That is a separate issue.”
There it was.
The second clock.
Cancer remission.
Hereditary risk.
Dr. Mehta reminded us that Allison would eventually need to consider risk-reducing surgery related to BRCA1.
Removal of the remaining ovary and fallopian tube.
Possibly additional preventive decisions.
Timing depended on multiple factors.
Age.
Family history.
Fertility plans.
Personal preference.
Choice again.
Always choice.
After the appointment, we sat in the car.
Mateo was with Teresa.
Neither of us started the engine.
I knew better than to speak first.
Allison stared at the windshield.
Then she said, “I want another baby.”
The sentence was quiet.
Definite.
My chest tightened.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
I waited.
She turned toward me.
“I think I’ve known for a while.”
“How long?”
“Maybe six months.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“No.”
Old hurt flickered.
Then I noticed it.
Fear beneath.
She made a decision without me.
I breathed.
“Why not?”
“I wanted to know whether it was real.”
I nodded.
“And?”
“It kept being real.”
I looked at her.
“What does wanting another baby mean to you?”
She smiled faintly.
“Very therapist question.”
“I’m expensive now.”
She laughed.
Then became serious.
“It means I want to try.”
“Embryo transfer?”
“Maybe.”
“Natural conception?”
“I don’t know.”
She leaned back.
“I don’t need another child to repair anything.”
I nodded.
“I don’t need proof cancer didn’t win.”
“Good.”
“I don’t need Mateo to have a sibling.”
“Also good.”
“I just…”
She looked out the window.
“I want another person at our table.”
That image hit me harder than any medical argument.
A table.
Four plates.
Another small voice.
Another set of shoes by the door.
I saw it.
And feared it.
“What are you thinking?”
Allison asked.
“That I want that too.”
Her eyes filled.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
I laughed softly.
“Unfortunately.”
She laughed.
Then I continued.
“I’m also terrified.”
“So am I.”
“What if pregnancy is hard?”
“It probably will be.”
“What if fertility treatment fails?”
“It might.”
“What if you get sick again?”
Her face changed.
There it was.
The fear beneath every future plan.
“I could get sick again without getting pregnant.”
“I know.”
“And I could stay healthy.”
“I know.”
She took my hand.
“I don’t want recurrence risk becoming the reason I never live.”
That sentence became the center of the next year.
We met with Dr. Patel.
The fertility specialist pulled up the records on our two frozen embryos.
Both remained viable.
Both had been frozen at the blastocyst stage.
Neither guaranteed anything.
“Would you recommend transfer?” Allison asked.
“From a reproductive standpoint, yes, if oncology clears you.”
“Both?”
“No.”
Dr. Patel smiled.
“One at a time.”
Allison glanced at me.
“Twins would've been efficient.”
“No.”
“Coward.”
“Correct.”
We discussed medications.
Monitoring.
Timing.
Success rates.
Failure rates.
Miscarriage.
Ectopic pregnancy.
Everything that could happen before pregnancy became pregnancy.
Then came genetic counseling.
Because of BRCA1.
Allison sat across from a counselor named Miriam who spoke carefully about inheritance.
Each child had a chance of inheriting the mutation.
Embryo genetic testing might be possible depending on stored samples and technical factors.
That opened another decision we had not prepared for.
Test the embryos?
Transfer without testing?
Potentially choose one based on genetic status?
Allison became quiet.
In the parking lot afterward, she said, “I hate this.”
“What part?”
“All of it.”
She walked toward the car.
“I hate knowing things.”
That surprised me.
After everything her mother had hidden, information had become sacred.
Now knowledge felt heavy.
“If we test them,” she said, “then we know.”
“Yes.”
“And if one has BRCA?”
I understood.
“What do we do with that information?”
“Exactly.”
She unlocked the car.
“My mother not telling me was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“But knowing creates choices I don't know how to make.”
“Yes.”
She leaned against the door.
“What would you do?”
I smiled weakly.
“Dangerous question.”
“I’m serious.”
“I don't know.”
She groaned.
“Of course.”
I thought.
“I think we should get information about the testing process before deciding whether to do it.”
She nodded.
“One step.”
“One step.”
So we learned.
The embryos had not undergone preimplantation genetic testing.
Testing would require thawing, biopsy, refreezing.
Small risks.
Costs.
Time.
No certainty that either embryo would remain suitable.
Allison listened.
Then asked the genetic counselor, “If a child inherited BRCA1, would their life be ruined?”
“No.”
“Would they definitely get cancer?”
“No.”
“Could they know earlier than I did?”
“Yes.”
That mattered.
The family history did not end with mutation.
It also included secrecy.
That part we could change.
One night, Allison sat at the dining table after Mateo went to bed.
Rachel’s notebook lay open.
Things You Chose.
The pages had filled over two years.
School.
Embryo preservation.
Counseling.
Boundaries.
Marriage.
She wrote:
Transfer one embryo without genetic testing.
I read it from across the table.
“You decided?”
She looked up.
“I think so.”
“Why?”
She closed the notebook.
“Because I don’t believe carrying BRCA makes a life less worth starting.”
I let that sit.
“And if our child has it someday?”
“We tell them.”
“Yes.”
“We give them medicine, screening, information, choices.”
“Yes.”
Her voice tightened.
“We do what should’ve been done for me.”
I nodded.
“Then I’m with you.”
She smiled.
The transfer was scheduled for six weeks later.
Those weeks turned us into people we recognized from our infertility years.
Calendar on refrigerator.
Medication times.
Ultrasound appointments.
Lab results.
Hope carefully rationed.
But something was different.
We were different.
When Allison forgot one evening injection, she panicked.
“I ruined it.”
“No.”
“What if timing matters?”
“We call the clinic.”
“What if they say we have to cancel?”
“Then we deal with that.”
She looked at me.
“You’re not mad?”
“Why would I be mad?”
“You used to get stressed when treatment changed plans.”
I remembered.
I had treated fertility treatment like a joint project that inconveniently happened mostly inside her body.
“No.”
I handed her the phone.
“Call.”
The nurse told us what to do.
No disaster.
The cycle continued.
Transfer morning arrived cold and bright.
Teresa watched Mateo.
Rachel sent Allison a message.
No crowns. No inspirational nonsense. Just love.
Allison smiled.
The procedure was quick.
Almost anticlimactic.
On the ultrasound screen, a tiny flash appeared when the embryo was transferred.
“There,” Dr. Patel said.
Allison squeezed my hand.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Minutes later, we walked out.
Pregnant?
Not pregnant?
Too soon for either word.
Waiting again.
The two-week wait became its own form of insanity.
Allison refused home pregnancy tests.
“I did enough of those during infertility.”
“Agreed.”
On day four, she felt nothing.
On day six, she thought she felt something.
On day seven, she decided the something was gas.
On day nine, she cried because she felt normal.
On day ten, she cried because she felt tired.
I did not interpret symptoms.
That rule saved our marriage.
On the morning of the blood test, Mateo insisted on wearing rain boots despite there being no rain.
Allison stared at him.
“Maybe this is a sign.”
“A sign of what?”
“Chaos.”
“That one’s confirmed.”
We dropped him at preschool.
Then went to the clinic.
Blood draw.
Home.
Wait.
By noon, neither of us could eat.
At two eleven, Dr. Patel called.
Allison put the phone on speaker.
“Your beta is positive.”
Silence.
I think both of us stopped understanding English.
“What?” Allison said.
“You’re pregnant.”
She covered her mouth.
I sat down.
Pregnant.
Again.
The word carried joy.
And terror.
And memory.
And risk.
“What’s the number?”
Allison asked.
Of course she did.
Dr. Patel told her.
Strong initial result.
Repeat in forty-eight hours.
After the call ended, Allison stared at me.
“We’re pregnant.”
“Yes.”
She started crying.
I did too.
Then she laughed.
“You’re crying.”
“I’m allowed.”
“You are.”
We held each other.
No one managed the other.
Two separate fears.
Two separate joys.
Same room.
When we picked Mateo up, we did not tell him.
Not yet.
At home, Allison stood in the kitchen.
She placed her hand over her abdomen.
“Do you feel different?” I asked.
“No.”
Then she smiled.
“Maybe.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“Scared.”
“That part’s familiar.”
“And happy.”
“Also familiar.”
She leaned against me.
The refrigerator hummed behind us.
Three years earlier, that kitchen had been the place where our marriage nearly ended.
Now it held school calendars, surveillance schedules, preschool artwork, and a fertility medication chart with half the boxes crossed out.
Life had not become safer.
It had become chosen.
Two days later, the pregnancy hormone rose appropriately.
A week after that, it rose again.
Then came the first ultrasound.
One small gestational sac.
One embryo.
One heartbeat.
Allison stared at the screen.
Tears ran toward her ears.
I held her hand.
The technician smiled.
“Everything looks where it should be.”
For that moment, the future became one pulsing point of light.
Then Allison whispered, “Please stay.”
I knew she was not speaking to me.
She was speaking to the life on the screen.
There was nothing I could do to guarantee it.
Nothing she could either.
We could only want it.
And wait.
Click here to continue reading: PART 26: Pregnancy Brought Allison Back to the Hospital Corridors She Feared Most, Until Mateo Asked the Question Neither Parent Expected
Four Hours After Bringing My Wife Home, One Careless Question Revealed What I Had Refused to See
Part 25 of 35
