I am not special. Though I really, sincerely believed I would be.
Because despite the fact that I’ve known so many women who waited months and years to get pregnant, I knew that the genes I carried were different. They are the genes of my mother and her mother and my sister.
All it took for those women was one time. Heck, one time is all it took for me two years ago. An early miscarriage at 6 weeks, but still. Once.
I’m sad, though I have no right to be. Not yet. Not after one month.
I just dread my next two week torture. Which, for me, is the worst part of everything.
Especially now that I know I’m not special.