The world of IVF is not a world of hope. It's a world of clinical, calculated odds. It was a world Eunice and Karlman understood. It was a world of money, data, and pain.
Dr. Aris was older, her kind face now etched with the same weariness they felt. "I'm glad you're here," she said. "Given your history, the Vesper's... IVF with PGD—Pre-implantation Genetic Diagnosis—is the only path. We create the embryos, we test them, we find the healthy ones, we transfer. It's a simple, three-step process."
It was not simple.
The "process" began with a box. A refrigerated, Styrofoam box delivered to their door, filled with vials, syringes, and alcohol swabs. It cost as much as a used car.
The ritual began. Every night, at 9 p.m., Karlman Dowman, the man who ran a multi-million-dollar analytics firm, would wash his hands, scrub a small circle on Eunice's abdomen with an alcohol swab, and give her an injection.
He was meticulous. He was precise. He never hurt her.
Eunice, the woman who had faced down her entire family, would brace against the kitchen counter, her eyes shut, and take the needle. The hormones flooded her system. They made her bloated, bruised, and emotionally raw. She would cry at a dog food commercial and then, an hour later, feel a rage so profound she wanted to shatter the glass walls of their house.
They were in it together. This was their new "project."
Then came the "retrieval." Eunice was put under. Karlman sat in the waiting room, which was filled with other men, all staring at their phones, all radiating the same silent terror.
The nurse came out. "She's in recovery. We got 14."
Karlman's "A-type" heart soared. Fourteen! A good number. A winning number. They had assets.
The real "curse" began its work. The culling.
They got the calls every morning.
Day 1: "Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Dowman. Of your 14 eggs, 12 were mature. We've fertilized them with ICSI. 10 have fertilized."
Ten! They gripped hands. They were in the game.
Day 3: "Good morning. Of your 10 embryos, 8 are still dividing. Two arrested."
They didn't speak. Arrested. Such a gentle word for "died." But 8 was still good. 8 was strong.
Day 5: "Good morning. We have 4 blastocysts. The other 4 arrested."
Half. Gone in 48 hours. But 4 was all they needed. "They're beautiful, Eunice," the embryologist said. "Perfect 5AA grades."
A-grades. Eunice wept with relief. She was, as always, an "A-type."
"We're sending them for genetic testing now," the voice continued. "For the Vesper's. We'll have the results in a week."
A week. A week of hollow, vibrating hope. A week where Eunice lived in a fantasy. She downloaded a nursery design app. She looked at names. Karlman caught her. "Don't," he whispered. "Not yet."
The call came. Eunice put it on speaker. Karlman's hand was on her shoulder.
"Eunice, Karlman," the genetic counselor's voice was gentle. Too gentle. "We got the results. Of the four embryos... embryo one, positive for Vesper's. Embryo two... positive for Vesper's. Embryo three... positive for Vesper's."
The room was silent.
"What about the fourth?" Eunice's voice was a croak.
A pause. "The fourth embryo... was positive as well."
The "one-in-four" chance. A statistical lie. They had run the gauntlet, produced four "perfect" embryos, and the "curse" had claimed them all. Four for four.
Eunice hung up the phone. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She walked, calmly, to the kitchen. She looked at Karlman. His face was ashen. He looked like he'd been struck.
"The odds," he whispered. "The odds... that's... that's statistically impossible."
"Is it?" Eunice said. She opened the refrigerator. She took out the remaining boxes of injections. Thousands of dollars' worth of hope. She walked to the stainless steel trash can, opened the foot pedal, and dropped them in, one by one.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
"Eunice, stop. We'll... we'll do another round."
"With what?" she said, her voice dead. "With what, Karlman? It's not the money. It's... me. It's us. The doctor... the diagnosis... they were right. Our biology rejects us. We're a 'highly unlikely' event. We're a genetic dead end."
She closed the trash can.
"It's over," she said. "I'm done. I can't do this anymore."