Page 1 of Fault Lines
Prologue
My cheeks stung with hot shame as a stray tear was brushed away—humiliation at nearly breaking down in public. Cameron’s hand found mine, fingers curling in a steady, grounding squeeze. “It’s going to be alright,” he whispered. “We’re finally going to get some answers.” The word answers had the taste of a sentence, not a solution. Four miscarriages, stretched over six years, pointed to something unfixable. Something in me.
Before Cameron and I said our vows, he’d already spun elaborate stories of what our future would look like. A boy, breaking in a battered mitt, chasing fly balls in the backyard. A daughter swirling past in ballet tights, maybe a pageant sash, blond curls drifting, or maybe a dark-headed, stubborn child with Cam’s determined jaw. He used to talk about it with his eyes gone soft, happy lights flickering behind them. I saw it, too, after a while. The softness of a little head under my palm; small hands and puzzle pieces and laughter echoing down the hallway.
Cameron had grown up alone. Only child, moving from city to city on the back of his father’s military orders. He didn’t talk about it much, but sometimes I’d catch the way the empty house seemed to press on him when we came home late and there was nobody waiting. It made sense, after that, how he craved siblingsfor our kids, how he wanted noise and chaos where he’d grown up with only silence.
We dated two years, got married, and he was ready the next minute to start a family. I’d finished college, but my dreams always seemed to slip and change: law, then nursing, then teaching. Each idea glimmered for a while, until another turned my head. Cam teased me, saying I was too much of a free spirit, that kids would finally anchor me. He wanted a house full of laughter and messes and a wife who stayed close, just the opposite of his own mother’s constant absences and the rotating door of babysitters and housekeepers. I agreed. It sounded safe. No one ever warned me how quickly trying could become a mountain to climb.
When I saw the first two pink lines on a strip of plastic, I thought my heart would burst. It took six months after our wedding, and from the moment I told Cam he started buying things: onesies, a crib, little booties. He had hope that filled our whole house. But sorrow showed up before the first ultrasound. “It happens sometimes,” the hospital staff said gently, “no reason to worry.” But the seed had been planted. Worry took root.
The second time happened nearly a year later, ending at ten weeks. Again, “one of those things.” By the third time, Dr. Wash recommended a whole panel of tests. I hesitated. Denial was easier than facing what might be lurking underneath. But Cam was unraveling, even if he tried to hide it. With the third pregnancy, every errand, every twinge in my body, felt dangerous. The fourth time, I barely left bed. Still, the bleeding started. My voice was shaking when I called Cam. He said "I’m on my way," but I could already hear how his heart was breaking. At the hospital, when his tears finally fell, I couldn’t hold myself together anymore. I gave in. I agreed to the tests.
The next six months blurred: appointments, scans, blood draws, pokes and prods that left me raw and empty. We sat in Dr. Wash’s office, twenty minutes past our time. The clock on her wall seemed to get louder every minute. My nerves were a live wire. When she came in, she was holding a clipboard, clutched to her chest, her face drawn down in a tired frown. She didn’t say anything at first. That told me plenty.
“Sorry for the wait,” she said, sliding the clipboard onto her desk. “It’s been a hectic morning.” She scanned the sheet. “I’ve looked at all your tests.” Her voice dropped lower, heavier.
“Cameron, your sperm count is lower than average, but not by much. Obviously, that’s not the main issue, since Olivia has conceived four times. It’s the carrying-to-term that’s the problem.”
Cam’s jaw clenched. “Do you know why it keeps happening?”
She pushed the clipboard to the side, folding her hands. “It’s complicated. Multiple things, actually. We harvested some eggs, Olivia, both for testing and for IVF if you want to try that.”
I nodded. “We talked about that, yes.”
“The egg count is lower than we’d expect for your age. In fact, the fact you got pregnant four times is almost lucky.”
My question burst out before I could stop it. “Why would it be so low?”
She shrugged. “Could be genetics. But the embryo quality, across all the samples, was poor. Either Cameron’s sperm or your eggs—I can’t say which for sure, maybe both—carry abnormalities that affect viability. And with your bicornuate uterus, miscarriage risks go up. Hormonal imbalances, too, but those are more treatable.”
Cam squeezed my hand, his knuckles white. “So, what does all that mean? Could we ever have a child?”
Dr. Wash smiled, gently, but her eyes looked sad. “There are ways to become parents besides natural conception. Surrogacy is a good option—the egg and sperm issues aren’t ideal, but a surrogate could make it more likely for a pregnancy to stick. Or adoption, if that’s something you’re open to.”
Cam pressed, leaning in. “Why not IVF?”
Dr. Wash shook her head. “Odds are very low. The poor egg quality and your history make success unlikely. I can’t say it’s impossible, but it’s not promising.”
The words knocked the breath out of me even though, deep down, I’d already known. I looked across at Cam, and he was stone-still. I realized, then, how long he’d let himself hope.
Dr. Wash offered us a business card. “This surrogacy program is reputable. If you want to meet, they’re right here in the building. No hurry, but egg viability does decline, so time is a consideration.”
Cam accepted the card and helped me to my feet, guiding me with his hand pressed close at the small of my back. “Thank you,” he said, voice rough.
The doctor smiled again, softer this time. “You’d be wonderful parents, whichever path you take. If adoption is of interest, I can refer a good agency.”
“We’ll think about it,” Cam said.
Out in the hallway, the silence felt heavier than before. The question hanging between us: Would this be the crack that split us, in the end? Would Cam decide there was nothing left for him here? I couldn’t shake that fear. With Cam, I felt safe. I couldn’t bear the idea of losing him and the future all in one stroke.
We drove home in total silence. I watched the side of Cam’s face as he drove, searching for some sign of what he was thinking, while my own mind spiraled. We pulled into our driveway; the house we’d bought for the family we’d never have. Five bedrooms, every inch picked out for kids. Walking insidefelt like stepping into a crypt. I remembered Cam carrying me over the threshold, laughing about who would get each bedroom, his dreams splintering in my memory.
Inside, Cam went straight to the bar in the living room and poured himself scotch. “Want one?” He didn’t look my way, but I shook my head. He finished it in one gulp and poured another.
After that, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The tears came fast, unstoppable. Cam was instantly at my side, kneeling to wrap his arms around me, holding me together when I was sure I’d fall apart. “Don’t cry,” he said. “We’ll get through this. I promise. There’s nothing we can’t do together.”
I choked out, “I can’t give you what you need. It’s always been your dream to have a family. You even talked about it on our third date.”
