What We Keep

The prenatal vitamin bottle sat on the nightstand, a bright yellow accusation. Every morning, Elena dry-swallowed one with the grim efficiency of a woman performing penance. Three years of trying, two miscarriages, and now this — the final IVF cycle before they'd have to admit defeat.

Marcus was already awake, sitting at the edge of the bed, his back to her. The charging cable from his phone snaked across the comforter like a black question mark. He'd been sleeping there more often lately, claiming his snoring bothered her, as if either of them had slept soundly in months.

"You okay?" she asked, her voice rough with sleep.

"Fine. Just checking work email."

The lie hung between them, heavier than the silence. He wasn't checking work. He was doom-scrolling, numbing himself against the possibility that this last attempt might fail, just like the others. Elena reached out and touched the soft brown fur of the teddy bear on her pillow — a gag gift from Marcus on their first anniversary, back when they were young enough to find infertility statistics abstract, not personal. She'd named him Boris, and somehow, through all the shots and appointments and negative tests, he'd remained.

"Marcus?" she said softly.

"Yeah?"

"If this doesn't work..." She couldn't finish the sentence.

He turned then, and she saw his face — the exhaustion, the fear, but also the love that had kept them from falling apart entirely. "Then we'll figure out what's next. Together."

Elena swallowed her vitamin and reached for his hand across the tangled cable. Some things, she realized, you couldn't control. But you could choose what to keep. Boris, watching from the pillow, seemed to approve.