Isabella’s tear-stained face told me that the IVF treatment had failed again. She tried to hide it, but black mascara slid down her flawless, cream-coloured skin. I could give her anything she wanted, holidays abroad, clothes, jewellery, but not the baby she so desperately longed for. It tore me to pieces to see her get excited each time we went to the clinic. Only to see her dreams shattered by the cold, unacceptable words “I’m sorry Mrs Yeltkin, but I’m afraid the treatment hasn’t worked this month.” The complications lay with me and of course, I felt inadequate. Isabella knew I constantly blamed myself for our childless relationship. She tried to remain optimistic. Always offering me encouragement to salvage my pride. “Sam, next month could be our month,” she’d say squeezing my hand. Sm