I remember the middle of May 2007 vividly. I was in my early thirties and many of my friends were having children. Baby shower invitations seemed to arrive one after another. I had been seeing specialists for years, enduring misdiagnoses, circular reasoning, and, most significantly, a gradual loss of hope. That May, I was again told what had become a familiar conclusion: I would not be able to have children without significant fertility medical interventions that would cost thousands of dollars and offer no guarantees.
At the time, I was not Catholic. My relationship with God was distant and uncertain. I remember asking — not even in words, but in a kind of ache — why. It felt as though I had done something wrong, and I was being punished.








