For many years, my life was defined by a painful word that doctors repeated to me again and again infertile. Every hospital visit ended the same way. More tests, more medicines, and finally the same heartbreaking conclusion that my chances of ever becoming a mother were extremely low.
I would leave those hospitals feeling empty, as if the future I had always imagined was slowly disappearing. My husband tried to comfort me, but the pressure from society was too much. In our village, people talk.
Some relatives suggested my husband should find another wife who could give him children. Others said maybe I had done something wrong in my younger years. Those whispers hurt more than the hospital reports.
