Page 75 of Where She Belongs
Would Gabe want children someday? We’ve never discussed it directly, but he’s thirty-four, at an age where many men are just beginning to think about fatherhood. And there’s his culture. He’s New Mexican, from a traditional family. With his sisters giving him numerous nephews and nieces, I’m sure he’d like to have a few of his own, and being the only boy in the family, a few to carry his family name.
Would he resent committing to someone who can’t give him that option? Would he stay out of obligation, out of the loyaltythat defines him, only to grow bitter as years pass and that door remains forever closed?
I’ve seen it happen—watched colleagues’ marriages disintegrate when reproductive issues arose, witnessed the slow poisoning of relationships once filled with love. I’ve counseled patients through the emotional devastation of infertility, seen firsthand how it tests even the strongest bonds.
And Gabe and I? We’ve barely begun. Our foundation is strong—ten years of friendship, of mutual respect, of knowing each other’s strengths and flaws. But this romantic dimension is embryonic (oh, the irony of the term), vulnerable, not yet tested by real-world complications.
Sleep eludes me as I cycle through scenarios, each darker than the last. By morning, fatigue and fear have crystallized into a terrible certainty: I can’t do this to him. Can’t bind him to a future with compromised choices. Can’t risk watching his love slowly transmute to resentment.
My phone remains silent through breakfast, through my commute to the clinic, through morning rounds. I check it obsessively between patients, hoping for Gabe’s name to appear. When it finally does, it’s a brief text:
Gabe:
Sorry I missed your call. In meetings until 6, then dinner with the IRS director. Everything okay?
The casual brevity stings irrationally. I know he’s busy, know these meetings determine his clinic’s future. But the contrast between my night of existential panic and his focused professional agenda creates an unexpected distance.
Andrea:
Fine. Just wanted to check in. Good luck with the meetings.
I hate myself for the lie, for the forced normalcy, but what alternative exists?By the way, I’m going through premature menopause and can’t have your childrenisn’t exactly text message material.
The day crawls by, my mind only half-present during patient consultations, administrative meetings, resident evaluations. My phone remains largely silent except for a mid-afternoon text:
Gabe:
Meeting running late. Might have to skip our call tonight. Rain check? Things looking promising here. Miss you.
The casual rescheduling—reasonable, expected given his circumstances—somehow feels like confirmation of my fears. This is how it would start, wouldn’t it? The gradual pulling away, the prioritizing of other matters, the slow realization that I’m not what he imagined for his future.
Better to end it now, before we’re both too invested, too entangled.
By evening, a migraine pulses behind my left eye, and I leave the clinic early, driving home on autopilot. The townhouse feels emptier than usual, the silence more pronounced.
I pour a glass of wine, though I know it will exacerbate my headache, and open my laptop. For twenty minutes, I stare at a blank email, cursor blinking accusingly as I try to find words for what I need to say.
How do you end something that’s barely begun? How do you explain walking away from possibility to spare future pain?
In the end, the words come in a rush, clinical and detached because the alternative is too raw, too vulnerable:
Gabe,
I’ve received some medical news that changes things between us. Nothing immediately serious, but it impacts certain future possibilities in ways that matter.
You deserve someone who can give you every option, every choice. I can’t be that person, and it would be selfish of me to continue this relationship knowing that fundamental incompatibility.
I think it’s better we end this now, before we’re both more invested. What we shared in Hawaii was beautiful, but perhaps it’s best preserved as a perfect memory rather than complicated by reality.
Please don’t call when you read this. I need space to process everything, and I think we both needclean boundaries to move forward. Our professional relationship is too important to compromise with messy emotions.
I’m sorry.
Andrea
My finger hovers over the send button for a full minute before I finally press it, watching the message disappear into the digital ether. The finality of it brings no relief, only a hollowness that expands beneath my ribs.
My phone begins ringing almost immediately—Gabe’s name and photo appearing on the screen. I silence it, setting the phone face-down on the coffee table. It rings again. And again. Then the texts begin:
