Chapter 1:
"Miss Shen… that was the last batch of embryos. Unfortunately, none of them were viable."
Dr. Mitchell, America's world-renowned fertility specialist just looked at me with that careful kind of sympathy doctors perfect over years: kind, distant, professional. His sigh was quiet but it filled the sterile white room with a heavy weight that pressed down on everything.
"My sincerest condolences," he added softly although I could tell his mind had already moved on to the next patient—the next woman whose hope might still be salvageable. Like I was just a name crossed off a list.
I didn't respond.
I couldn't.
I just… couldn't.
The words didn't make sense.Not at first. None of them were viable.
Does that mean it's the end?
The end of all my hopes and dreams?
I nodded at him or grimaced . I'm not even sure. My body just moved on autopilot somehow carrying me through motions I didn't even feel.
"Thank you," I murmured, voice hoarse and detached, before walking toward the door.
The clinic smelled faintly of disinfectant and lemon air freshener. Suffocating. I choked back a sob and didn't look back. I couldn't look back.
Outside, the sky was gray, windy, and heavy with rain. It was as if the whole world was grieving with me on the verge of collapse.
But maybe that was just me.
Why?
I asked myself as I crossed the street, barely aware of traffic or people.
Why am I always alone? Why is God so unfair?
Why is it always me?!
My feet carried me, almost by instinct, to the small café across from the clinic. I'd been there after every appointment a routine or unspoken ritual.
The barista didn't even ask for my order anymore. I stumbled inside, found my usual seat by the window and just… sat.
The hum of the espresso machine along with the chatter of strangers and the smell of roasted coffee beans all felt far away. It was like watching a scene in a movie.
+++
If someone asked me what my life was like, I'd say it looked… successful. But it hadn't been happy. Not really. On the outside, I was Shen Qing Rou succesful restaurateur, food blogger and owner of a thriving events company .
My name appears in glossy magazines. My recipes are shared online by strangers who call me "inspiring." I'm the woman who turned her passion into a brand who built a legacy.
But that's just the highlights. Nobody asks about the deleted scenes.
Behind the photos of pastries and candlelit dinners, behind the awards and smiling interviews, is a girl who never truly belonged anywhere.
My parents were second-generation heirs. Typically rich, polished, miserable together. Their marriage wasn't a love story just a contract. I was the collateral damage. When I was ten, they split. My father remarried within months. My mother found solace in travelling ,freedom and her career. Neither wanted full custody. I was passed around like an inconvenient reminder of a broken deal.
The only person who truly loved me was my grandmother. Soft-spoken but strong.She could turn sadness into silly songs and hardship into lessons. Her kitchen was my first classroom. She taught me how to knead dough, make loving home cooked meals and how to make something beautiful from leftovers.
When I was seventeen, I decided I wanted to be a doctor. Maybe I thought that if I could fix people maybe I could find purpose within myself. I studied hard. Passed challenging exams and got into medical school. Then again a whirlwind blew my life apart.
Cancer. Stage two.
I remember sitting in the hospital bed and staring at the IV line in my arm. Wondering if life was some cosmic joke. My parents visited— only out of obligation but not love. My step-siblings watched with detached sympathy. My grandmother stayed the whole time, holding my hand through every chemo session, every sleepless night, every moment I thought I would die.
I survived. The doctors called it a miracle. But survival came at a cost and the cost of my fertility . Radiation had quietly destroyed my ovaries. Nobody told me that at first and I only found out years later when I tried to start a family.
I didn't return to medical school. I didn't want white coats and cold corridors. I wanted warmth, colour and joy.Things that I could touch, taste and create. So I went to culinary school. My grandmother laughed at first at the irony but always my biggest backer when she then helped me pay the tuition. "My darling you are a warrior .You're alive ! Live your life to the fullest. There's no shame in being a chef .Before your grandfather made his first bucket of gold I was the one who supported the whole family with my cooking skills"
I opened my first café at twenty-four just a small corner shop with mismatched chairs and homemade pastries. People came slowly at first and then in crowds of regulars. I shared recipes online. By thirty, I had three businesses, a modest apartment and more social media followers than friends.
But I also had a dream—one that never went away.
A family.A baby
Someone to love without fear, someone who would love me back without conditions.
I tried dating. God knows I tried. By the third date, it always ended the same way. They'd ask about my scars or the years I lost to chemo and their faces would change—pity mixed with discomfort. I wasn't a patient to be pitied .I was a survivor but nobody saw the real me.
The chemistry, comfort and irrevocable romantic love remained confined to my novels .Some men were kind but none stayed. I told myself I didn't need them. I built my empire, travelled and overall lived my life
But at night I'd scroll through photos of families. Mom and dad cuddled on sofas with their newborn in their arms, mothers laughing with toddlers and babies clutching fingers. My heart would ache in silence and the raw pain in my soul ever present
So I decided to do it on my own.
The fertility journey began two years ago. I used donor sperm. I told myself science would make up for what nature took away. But then came the first failed cycle… then the second. I froze what few eggs I had but more than half were lost due to a storage technical malfunction. I didn't even get angry. I just felt… tired.
Each cycle became a gamble. Hormone injections, egg retrieval waiting. Always waiting. Every month ended with another apology from the doctor; another sympathetic smile and another "maybe next time."
Until today.
There won't be a next time.
Now sitting in this café I stare at the steam rising from my untouched latte. The window is fogged, blurring the city lights outside. My window reflecting a pale, hollow-eyed stranger who had lost all hope.
For years, I've been so busy creating—recipes, menus, businesses—that I forgot how it felt to lose.
A part of me still expects my grandmother to walk through that door, scold me for skipping lunch, tell me everything will work out. But she's been gone three years. I buried her ashes under the cherry blossom tree in her old garden. That was the last time I cried until today.
I press my palms together over my eyes and took deeper breathes as I tried to drown out the noise ,my thoughts and everything else. Maybe this is my fate. Maybe I'm meant to be alone.
But still…
Still, I imagine tiny hands gripping mine, a sleepy voice calling me Mama. I imagine laughter echoing through my empty apartment. Warm hugs, little eyelashes fluttering against an angel's face. And then agonnizing silence and pain that fills every corner when a dream dies quietly.
Dr. Mitchell probably moved on to his next patient by now. Maybe she's younger, healthier, luckier. Maybe she'll walk out of that clinic with a heartbeat growing inside her while I sit here imaging what could have been.
Outside, the rain has stopped. The streetlights cast long reflections on wet pavement. A couple walks by, hand in hand, sharing an umbrella. I envy them for their companionship and the certainty of not facing the world alone.
I take a deep breath and ignore the tears blurring my vision.
I tell myself I'm okay. I always do.
But the truth is, I don't know what "okay" means anymore.
Maybe that's what survival looks like. Pretending .Pretending, until the pretending becomes real.