The trouble with making decisions is you always regret them.

He came in her again last night, even after she told him it was risky. Great. Two more weeks of waiting, wondering, worrying. Two more weeks until she’ll know either way.

She still wants another baby, truthfully. She’s not ready to be done with bottles and booties and bassinets. She’s desperate to have one more chance to get it right.

He’s been the one holding back all these years, forcing her off at the last minute. But now, now that they know every pregnancy could result in another disabled child, he clings to her with a quiet desperation, not letting her eject until it’s done.

She still wants another baby, but only if it’s healthy. Only if they can afford it. Only if the time is right. Maybe it’s okay that they can’t try anymore. Maybe another kid would break them, break the tenuous hold they have on survival.

She tells the doctors they’re done. They will not risk having another child who grows up in hospitals. It seems selfish to gamble with a child’s health. “If it were just blindness,” she says, “maybe we would consider it.” Blindness isn’t that disabling, on its own at least. But everything else…

The doctors assure her that there are options, that if she conceived another affected child they could terminate the pregnancy. But she couldn’t. She could never give up on a life that came to her, no matter how troubled that life was destined to be. No, no, no. Better not to take the risk.

When they first got the news, she sulked around for days, mourning the child she would never have. Finally, he confronted her. “What did I do to make you so upset?” Of course he would think it was about him. She sobbed. “Don’t you get it? We can never have another kid.” He crumbled. It had not occurred to him.

Since that conversation, since they’d formally decided to stop not-trying-not-to get pregnant, he expressed relief. Everywhere but in bed. There, he could not hide his sadness, his quiet desperation. He would ask each time if it was safe, but would come in her regardless of the answer. He didn’t want to give that up; the last year had been glorious.

She wishes she could go back to before they knew. She aches so furiously for that chance at new life, wants it so bad it hurts. How can it be over? She always wanted a big family. How can it be that they are done? But they are. The chance is gone. It’s over forever.

Except he’s not on board. He keeps coming in her. Each month since they’ve known, she has spent the last two weeks of her month wondering if it would happen, wondering if they’d have to call the doctors after all. She hopes she’ll never have to make that call. But then again, she hopes for a little life inside of her, too.

She hates this terrible decision. He does, too.