The hum of the fluorescent light above the doctor's office was the only sound. It flickered faintly, buzzing in rhythm with Emma Shaw's heartbeat as she sat in the stiff leather chair, her palms pressed so tightly against her knees that her knuckles turned white.
Dr. Marcus Hale, whose hair had grayed too early, adjusted his glasses as though searching for a gentler way to deliver the words he had rehearsed a hundred times before. The folder before him was thick with scans and notes—clinical proof of what Emma already feared.
"I'm afraid," he began, voice quiet but unforgiving, "the damage is extensive. The scarring from the accident… it's irreversible. Emma, I'm truly sorry, but you won't be able to conceive children."
The words struck like iron bars. Emma blinked once, twice, willing sheer willpower to rearrange the sentence into something less cruel. She sat very still, lips parted, breath caught halfway in her throat.
Across from her, Ethan Blake shifted. His broad shoulders leaned forward—not in comfort, but in agitation. "Are you certain?" he demanded, sharp. "There must be another test, another option. You can't just say that and expect us to accept it."
Dr. Hale's eyes softened, but his words remained firm. "I've consulted with two specialists. The damage is conclusive. I know this isn't the answer you wanted, but denial won't change the outcome."
Emma turned to her husband, hoping—aching—for a hand to reach hers, a word of reassurance, some tether to hold her from falling apart. But Ethan's eyes did not meet hers. They fixed on the sterile linoleum floor, carved in stone.
She whispered, voice trembling, "Ethan…"
But he didn't answer.
As she left the office, the weight of the diagnosis pressed down like a storm cloud, and Emma realized that nothing in her life would ever feel the same again.