That was Adam—thoughtful, observant, generous to a fault. I fell hard and fast. We went on our first date the next evening, and it felt like we had known each other our entire lives. He was a corporate attorney—brilliant but humble—the kind of man who remembered the names of wait staff and asked genuine questions about their lives. Eight months after we met, he proposed on the harbor with the actual skyline mirroring the painting that brought us together.

We bought our Victorian home in Beacon Hill shortly after our first anniversary. It was a stretch financially at $800,000, but Adam had just made partner at his firm, and I was building a solid reputation as an interior designer. The house needed work, but it had good bones, high ceilings, and a small garden out back where I envisioned future children playing.

Those children never came, not for lack of trying. For years, we charted and planned and hoped. Then came the doctors, the tests, the procedures—four rounds of IVF that drained our savings and our spirits. I still remember the last failed attempt and the quiet drive home from the clinic, Adam reaching across the console to hold my hand, neither of us speaking because we both knew that was the end of that road.’