One week after I miscarried, I sat on the edge of an exam table in my OB/GYN’s office for a check-up. The next several months were mapped out full of doctors’ appointments, various specialists, and pregnancy gurus. My doctor stood in front of me using medical jargon, explaining what had happened. It sounded like a bunch of big words that basically meant they didn’t know what the fuck happened.

“These things are sometimes unexplainable,” he said.

Jeff sat next to me, holding my hand. He asked the doctor what sort of affect this miscarriage would have on future attempts. I didn’t recognize Jeff these days. He was distant, his movements mechanical. He’d calloused over.

The doctor seemed startled by his question and recommended waiting a few months. “I would wait for Delilah to heal completely, both physically and emotionally. These things can take some time,” he said.

“Well, what’s the minimum we need to wait? We don’t really want to wait any longer than that. We want a family,” Jeff said. His voice was stern, adamant.

The doctor hesitated for a moment and looked at me. I don’t know exactly what my face told him, but it must have been pleading for help.

“I would wait at least twelve weeks,” he said with authority.

On the way home, Jeff was silent. He didn’t say much of anything these days, and I’m not sure I could say anything to make it better. He wanted a baby. I got it. So did I. I just wasn’t sure I was in line with this new perspective he seemed to have.

He’d spent the past three days pacing around the house, talking out loud to no one in particular. Or maybe it was directed toward me. I wasn’t sure.

“We’ll just try again. We’ll try again, and we’ll see the best doctors and have the best specialists look at you and we will try again. We will have our family. We will,” he insisted.

I wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince me or himself, but with each passing conversation he had out loud with himself while I remained silent, I grew more fearful of getting pregnant again. I never wanted to experience that loss again. I had an immense amount of guilt when I thought about that. As a wife, I should give my husband what he wants, right? He just wants a family with me. How could I deny him that? The more I thought about it, the more confused I became.

I kept quiet until we got home and then went straight up to our bedroom where I’d spent the majority of the last week. I peeled out of my clothes, took a shower, and came back into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around me. I was startled to see Jeff sitting on the end of the bed. He’d slept in his study for the last week. I let him. We both needed some space.

“I don’t think that doctor knows what he’s talking about,” he said.

“What do you mean, Jeff?” I asked. I was more than confused and his tone was beginning to frighten me.

“I mean, I don’t think we need to wait,” he said. He shot me a look I didn’t recognize.

“Yes, we do,” I fired back.

“No, we don’t!” he said. He was up off the bed, across the floor, and ripping my towel from my hands quicker than I could respond. The towel flopped to the floor before I could even reach for it. I stood frozen as he wrapped himself around me and kissed roughly at my neck. He ran his hands up and down the side of my body and I tried pushing them away.

“No, Jeff. Not yet. This isn’t the time,” I said, trying to pull away.

“Yes, it is. We can do this. Right now,” he said, pulling me back in despite my resistance. He was stronger than me by a lot, so it wasn’t hard for him.

“Please don’t,” I pleaded.

Jeff didn’t hear me or didn’t want to hear me. Or worst of all, heard me and didn’t care. I begged and pleaded with each movement. He pushed me back to the edge of the bed and my knees buckled. I fell back onto it and tried to get up. Jeff pushed me back down with one hand bearing down hard on my chest. I felt his knee pushing against the center of my closed legs until he parted them. I let out a yelp.

“Shh, it’s okay. Everything is going to be fine. We’re going to have a family. Everything is going to be fine,” he whispered against the side of my face.

I turned my face and started to cry as I felt him unbuttoning his pants. I stopped pushing against him. I stopped fighting back. There was no use. He was too big and too heavy and I was powerless. He forced himself into me. I could hear him breathing heavy against me. I kept my eyes closed tightly. It will be over soon. It will be over soon.

The terrible thing about being married and being raped is that it’s very difficult to prove. It was almost impossible, according to Google. I cried for three days. Jeff kept his distance, going from work to his study and back most days.

On the fourth day, he raped me again. He came up behind me while I was doing laundry and forced me facedown onto the dryer. I screamed and tried to fight back until I didn’t. When he finished, he pulled his pants up, grabbed his keys, and left the house. I sat on the cold tile floor, bleeding. I got up on wobbly legs, changed my clothes, walked upstairs to the bedroom, and locked myself in. I pulled out my laptop and started writing about a woman who had a miscarriage.

I heard Jeff come home and start walking up the stairs. He shoved his shoulder into the door a couple of times and it busted in. I clutched my laptop in my lap. He walked over to the bed and emptied the contents of a paper sack he’d been holding onto the blanket. There must have been ten boxes of pregnancy tests. It was the most frightening sight.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” he said. “We’re going to have our family. We’ll have our family and everything will be fine.” This was all he ever said to me anymore. These two phrases rearranged over and over again.

He’d quickly grown mad. And I’d quickly grown afraid.