There was this young mad girl who stopped me on the road and handed me a key, saying, “This is the key to the room where your husband locked up all your unborn children—that’s why you’re barren!”

My name is Gracie. I’ve been married to Christopher for almost six years with no cry of a child in our home.

There’s no hospital we haven’t visited to examine ourselves. Every doctor says the same thing: “Mr. and Mrs. Williams, you are both perfectly well. There is nothing medically wrong with either of you.”

I remember sitting on our expensive Italian leather sofa last Sunday, staring at a blank wall. “Christopher,” I called out, my voice breaking. “What’s the essence of marriage if I can’t give birth? Every time I see my sisters-in-law with their toddlers, my heart bleeds. Am I just a decorated piece of furniture in this house?”

Christopher walked over and knelt beside me, taking my hands in his. His eyes were full of warmth. “Gracie, look at me,” he said firmly. “I didn’t marry you because I wanted a factory for babies. I married you because I love you. Whether a child comes or not, we will stay in this love forever. Please, don’t bother yourself with these thoughts anymore.”

His words were sweet, like honey to a wound, yet the ache stayed deep in my soul.