By our second year of marriage, the “trying” had become mechanical, scheduled, and joyless. Jason bought ovulation kits, tracked everything on apps, and turned our bedroom into a fertility lab. The man who used to kiss me good morning now just asked if it was the “right time” when he looked at me. Then came the doctor appointments—month after month of tests, procedures, and consultations. My body was poked, prodded, analyzed, and measured. Every test came back normal, but Jason insisted we keep looking for what was “wrong” with me. The possibility that fertility issues might be on his side never entered his vocabulary.