I blamed myself. Was I working too hard? Did I practice yoga incorrectly? I even gave up eating fried chicken — my favorite food — because someone said it was “too hot for pregnancy.” My husband remained silent. He was sad, but not overly distraught. He didn’t urge me to get further tests either. I obeyed, tried to be strong, and believed that “next time would be better.”
On the third year, when the test showed two lines, I cried with happiness. But at week seven, I miscarried. Everything fell apart like soap bubbles.
The second pregnancy came a year later, and I was extremely careful. I bought a fetal heart rate monitor, had private doctors monitor me, and ate like it was a school curriculum. But at week ten, once again, the fetal heart rate stopped. I collapsed, while my husband remained strangely calm. That night, he went out drinking with friends, leaving me alone in the hospital, unable to stop the flow of tears. I felt like I was the only one who wanted this baby.
After that, I secretly went for check-ups and some hormone, uterine, and chromosome tests… everything was normal. I asked my husband to get tested too, but he refused, saying, “I’m sure I’m fine. People in my family reproduce like rabbits.”
When I turned 32, we divorced. There were no big fights, and there was no third party involved. It was simply… exhaustion. I didn’t want to spend another five to ten years unsure if I could have a child, while the person beside me remained silent, evasive, and lacking in empathy.
I underwent psychological therapy and healed myself for a year before meeting my current husband, who had lost his wife in an accident and had a young daughter. I fell in love with his patience, depth, and proactiveness. When we got married, I was 35.
I became naturally pregnant after just five months. This time, the doctors monitored me closely, and I took appropriate supplements from the beginning of my pregnancy. The morning sickness didn’t discourage me; instead, it made me happy to the point of tears. Being sick meant the baby was growing, I told my husband, and he hugged me, saying, “Then I wish for you to be sick a lot.”
At week eight, during an early check-up, the doctor recommended that both of us take genetic tests to have accurate data according to the new protocol. I had done it before, but he hadn’t, so we agreed.
I cried when I heard my baby’s strong heartbeat. I cried for the times I thought I wasn’t meant to be a mother.
My results were normal. So were my husband’s. And… the doctor mentioned something interesting: “If you’ve had unexplained miscarriages in the past, it’s possible that your previous husband carried a recessive abnormal gene, as this type of gene often doesn’t manifest outwardly but can hinder fetal development if it matches the mother’s gene.” When I asked for more details, the doctor added, “This happens in quite a few cases, but because the husband doesn’t get tested or hides the results, the wife assumes it’s her fault.”
I smiled faintly, not saying a word. Inside, something clicked. A memory surfaced: once, I had accidentally seen him putting some test results into a locked drawer, but I had forgotten about it. Perhaps… I had trusted him for too long. I had trusted his silence instead of seeking the truth.
Today, I’m in my 27th week, the baby is healthy and active, and I know the gender — it’s a boy. I cried when I heard my baby’s strong heartbeat. I cried for the times I thought I wasn’t meant to be a mother.
If you’re on a pregnancy journey and feeling exhausted, please be patient. Not every failure is your fault. There are truths lying dormant like unformed embryos, waiting for the right moment to reveal themselves and give you a new chance to start over, gently.
This article was submitted by a reader with the email address dinhliennh…@gmail.com. If you have a story to share, please send it to [email protected]
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