“He is a developer, Evelyn, he is used to managing projects from start to finish,” she said.
“I am his wife, Mom, not a project.”
She turned around then, her eyes showing a trace of worry that she quickly tried to blink away. “Just let him help you, please. A young family needs stability more than absolute independence.”
The drive to the Briar Hill Fertility Center was quiet, save for the hum of the heater against our boots. Nathan parked the sedan on the third level of the garage, where the automated machine printed out a ticket for a thirty-five dollar parking fee.
The lobby of the fertility center smelled of industrial pine cleaner and old paper. Nathan walked three paces ahead of me, his leather shoes clicking sharply against the polished linoleum floor.
I took a seat in one of the blue plastic chairs near the window, watching the gray autumn light filter through the glass. The air in the waiting room was dry and warm, making the synthetic wool of my coat feel heavy.
