“Mom, I Can’t Give You a Grandchild”: Living With Infertility in Our Marriage

“So, when are you two finally going to give me a grandchild?”

My fork froze halfway to my mouth. The clatter of Sunday dinner went silent in my ears as my mother-in-law, Cheryl, stared at me, her eyes shining with anticipation and that familiar hint of judgment. My husband, Ryan, sat rigid beside me, his blue eyes fixed on his untouched mashed potatoes. The rest of the table buzzed with awkward energy: his dad, pretending to check his phone; his sister, Heather, biting her lip.

I swallowed hard. My tongue felt thick, my cheeks hot. I glanced at Ryan, searching for help, a rescue, even a simple nod to confirm that we were in this together. But he looked away, jaw clenched, refusing to meet my gaze.

Cheryl pressed on. “You know, you’re both not getting any younger. Heather and Dave have little Mason now, and—well, I’d just love to have another little one running around.”

My heart thudded painfully. I felt like I was suffocating under the weight of her words. I wanted to scream, to cry, to run from the table. But instead, I gave a brittle smile. “We’re… working on it.”

A lie. Another lie, layered on top of a thousand others, all to keep this fragile peace from shattering into a million pieces.

I excused myself, claiming I needed to check on dessert. In the kitchen, I braced my hands against the counter, fighting back tears. The scent of baked apple pie and cinnamon did nothing to soothe me. My reflection in the microwave door looked pale, exhausted, and older than my thirty-four years.

Ryan followed me a moment later, closing the swinging door behind him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, not meeting my eyes.

“Are you?” I hissed, my voice trembling. “Because you let her put it all on me. Again. Why can’t you just tell her?”

He looked helpless, shoulders slumped. “She wouldn’t understand.”

I wanted to scream. “Do you think I do? Do you think I wanted this, Ryan?” I choked out a sob, covering my mouth. “I’m so tired of being the one who has to pretend, to take the questions, to carry all the shame.”

He rubbed his face, looking like a drowning man. “Can we not do this now?”

I stared at him, feeling the distance between us grow. It hadn’t always been this way. Five years ago, we were the couple everyone envied: spontaneous road trips, laughter, plans. We’d bought this little house in the suburbs of Cleveland, painted the nursery yellow before I even missed my first period. The doctor’s words—“unexplained infertility”—echoed through that sunny room, stripping it of all color.

Every month became a cruel cycle of hope and heartbreak. The appointments, the hormones, the invasive questions from strangers and family alike. Each negative test was another silent argument, another night spent turned away from each other in bed, grieving alone.

Cheryl’s expectations only made it worse. She’d always been a force of nature—baking cookies for PTA, organizing church events, keeping a spotless home. To her, family meant babies, and a marriage without children was… incomplete. She never said it, but I could see it in the way she looked at me, as if I were failing some unspoken test.

I wished Ryan would speak up, take my side, share the burden. But he’d grown up in a family where feelings were private, where men didn’t cry or talk about pain. He retreated into silence, leaving me to answer all the questions.

I took a shaky breath and tried to compose myself. When we returned to the dining room, Cheryl was already clearing plates, chatting about Mason’s latest milestone. I pasted on another smile, but inside, I felt hollow.

That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Ryan turned to me, his voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe we should tell her. All of it.”

My throat tightened. “You think she’ll forgive me? Or just pity me?”

He reached for my hand. “It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s.”

But I knew better. In this world, in this family, the woman was always questioned first. I felt the shame settle in my bones, heavy and cold.

The next Sunday, I couldn’t bring myself to go. I told Ryan I wasn’t feeling well. He left alone, shoulders hunched, and I watched from the window as his car disappeared down the street. I curled up on the couch, clutching a pillow, letting the tears come freely for the first time in months.

Heather texted me later, a simple, “Thinking of you.” I stared at it, wondering if she knew, if she suspected. If she did, she never said.

Days turned into weeks. Ryan stopped mentioning his mother. We avoided the subject, as if silence could erase years of pain. But it festered between us, growing like a shadow.

One night, Ryan came home late. His eyes were red. He sat beside me and took my hands in his. “I told her,” he said. “I told her we’ve been trying. That it’s not happening. That we might never have a baby.”

I searched his face. “And?”

“She cried. She blamed herself, us, the world. But she said she loves you. Us. She said she’s sorry for pressuring you.”

For the first time in months, I felt a tiny spark of hope. Maybe this wound could finally heal.

But the grief still lingered, and the future was uncertain. Some days I felt strong; others, I felt like a ghost in my own life. I wondered if this marriage could survive the loss of a dream we’d built together.

Is love enough to fill the empty spaces left by what we can’t have? Or are some wounds too deep for time—or words—to heal?