The Kind of Love That Stays.

No one prepares you for what loss does to a relationship.
Not the kind of loss that’s visible—like a breakup or a goodbye you can explain.
But the quiet, invisible kind.
The kind that changes you from the inside out.
The kind that takes something you never got to hold, but will grieve for the rest of your life.

When I lost the ability to carry a child, I didn’t just mourn the loss of motherhood.
I mourned the version of our life I thought we might one day have.
And I mourned what I thought I had taken from him.

Because I can't be a mom.
And that means he can't be a dad—at least not in the way we once dreamed.
That kind of truth sits heavy between people.
It doesn’t go away. It lingers like a shadow in even the softest moments.

At night, when the world is quiet and the distractions stop, the guilt creeps in.
I stare at the ceiling beside him and wonder if I’ve taken something too big from him to ever give back.
His chance to see his eyes in someone else’s. His smile in a baby’s first laugh.
His opportunity to become a father—naturally, with the person he loves.

And the weight of that can crush me.

He never says it. Never makes me feel less.
But I feel it.
I feel it every time he talks to a child with that soft tone, or smiles at a baby passing by.
It stings—not because of anything he’s done—but because I know what he’s lost, too.
Because of me.

But still—he stayed.

When I wailed in his arms for nights on end, he didn’t flinch.
When I couldn’t catch my breath from the pain, he held me tighter, grounding me in a world I didn’t want to be in anymore.
When my body felt foreign, broken, less-than—he never treated it like anything but mine. Beautiful. Worthy. Whole.

He came to doctor’s appointments—every single one.
Sat beside me in waiting rooms.
Held my hand while tears streamed down my face as specialists said things no woman ever wants to hear.
He didn’t turn away from the sadness. He moved closer to it.

And on surgery day, when they came to wheel me away, he prayed with me—even though he didn’t believe in much of anything.
He cried when I kissed him goodbye.
He never cries.
But he cried for me.

Afterward, he came to my bedside every day after work, even when I couldn’t speak, even when I had nothing left to give.
He fed me, bathed me, tucked me in.
He rubbed my back while I sobbed into pillows.
He stayed up late talking about everything and nothing, letting me unravel in front of him and never once calling it too much.

And even now, long after the surgery scars have faded—he still listens.
Still shows up.
Still holds me when the grief resurfaces in the middle of a normal day.
When I go silent at dinner.
When my eyes well up at a commercial, or a stranger’s pregnancy post.
He doesn’t ask for explanations.
He just knows.

We haven’t been together forever.
Not even a full year when all of this began.
But time means nothing when someone chooses to love you through the fire.

This is what love looks like when life doesn’t go according to plan.

It’s not perfect.
It doesn’t come wrapped in romantic gestures or fairy tale scripts.
It’s quiet. And steady. And deeply brave.

Because he could’ve walked away.
And no one would have blamed him.
But instead—he walked closer.

He loves me in a way I didn’t know was possible.

Not despite my grief, but through it.
Even knowing what we’ve lost together.

And that kind of love?
That is the kind that stays.