Pummelling my fists into a cushion, I let my frustration out. After more than a year of trying to conceive, I’d prayed this would be the month I’d fall pregnant. My husband and I had done all the ‘right’ things: had sex at ovulation, religiously downed our supplements, and filled our bodies with blueberries, broccoli and walnuts, rumoured to boost fertility. I’d convinced myself my exhaustion was a sign of early pregnancy, forgetting it was just as likely to be one of an impending period.
So, when it arrived, I was furious. At my body for not co-operating. At the innocent acquaintance,