When the door you wanted won’t open, build a new one. Love can still find its way through, and the family meant for you will know how to knock. They married on November 18, 2016, almost six years after falling in love. It felt like the start of a big, bright life. They mapped out adventures, St. Lucia, Disney, and Harry Potter, even a cruise through the Norwegian fjords, where, laughing at how young they were compared to everyone else, they decided to try for a baby. They cut the caffeine, skipped alcohol, stayed faithful to their wellness routines, and dreamed about coming home with a secret.
They waited out the first two weeks back from Europe, hopeful but realistic. The test was negative. She cried, not only because she wasn’t pregnant, but because something in her gut whispered this wouldn’t be easy. Months turned into stacks of tests and apps, ovulation strips, supplements, pomegranate juice, the SMEP plan, and so many prayers.
Her OB moved faster than usual and sent them to South Jersey Fertility after six months. Blood draws, exams, a semen analysis, then the call: she was healthy. Relief and confusion arrived together. Days later came the second call: male factor infertility. They were blindsided. Their doctor called it rare. More specialists, more tests, more waiting. She unraveled, then escaped into travel to catch her breath. When surgery finally came, she had to wake her husband with the news no one expects: it hadn’t worked. They were told they would never have biological children together. She screamed. They grieved in private.
They tried to make a plan. Adoption was beautiful but costly and lengthy, and donor eggs or sperm felt complicated inside a marriage already bruised by loss. Then, on a short drive to work, an idea hit her: If donors can give eggs and sperm, could someone donate an embryo? She called him with two words: “Embryo adoption.” He called back almost immediately: “Let’s do it.” Everything shifted. Their own clinic had an embryo donation program. They chose a donor profile and adopted two embryos. She prepped for transfer, carried both embryos with hope, and walked out with one miracle, Maerynne Rose, and a quiet grief for the embryo that didn’t stay. Love made room for both emotions at once.
They wanted a sibling for their daughter, so they repeated the process. COVID slammed the brakes; April’s transfer was canceled. She asked, “Why can’t this ever be simple?” He reminded her that the struggle had given them the child they might never have met otherwise. By late June 2020, the clinic thawed the last two embryos from their original donors. Because of pandemic rules, he joined by FaceTime while she lay under the bright lights, trying to be brave. Both survived the thaw. Both were transferred. Her HCG soared, and they dared to hope for twins. At the scan, she learned alone that one had been implanted and one hadn’t. She drove home carrying a beating heart and a fresh loss.
Months later, they welcomed their son, Lennox Evan, and watched their daughter become a big sister. If they try again, they’ll have to start from scratch with new donors, but that decision can wait. For now, they live inside the ordinary magic of snacks on the counter, little shoes by the door, and the quiet thrill of bedtime stories. Their family is unconventional, stitched together by science, generosity, and a stubborn faith that kept them moving when the road tilted. She speaks to anyone in the thick of infertility: you’re allowed every feeling you have.
Celebrate on good days without guilt, fold in on hard days without shame. Keep talking to each other; your grief might look different, but you’re on the same team. She doesn’t believe “everything happens for a reason.” She does believe beauty can grow in the wreckage. If a genie offered to erase the hard years and grant a month-one pregnancy, she wouldn’t take it. The path was painful, but it brought them the exact children who are theirs.
