Her name was Nurse Camille Reeves, a calm woman with a gentle voice who didn’t rush Nyla or look at her with judgment.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Nurse Reeves said. “We’ll take good care of you.”
Nyla almost cried right there.
Inside the exam room, Nyla stared at the wall poster of a smiling baby and felt her chest tighten.
She thought about the socks in her drawer, the onesie, the prayers that kept getting answered with silence.
Then the doctor entered.
Her name was Dr. Alana Whitfield—a Black woman in her late forties with sharp eyes and a steady voice, the kind of doctor who didn’t do gossip.
She did evidence.
Dr. Whitfield sat down with Nyla’s file and looked her straight in the face.
“Tell me everything,” she said.
And Nyla did.
She talked about the first loss, the second, the third, the blame, the insults, the way her husband watched her suffer and called it dramatic.
Dr. Whitfield didn’t interrupt. She just took notes.
When Nyla finished, Dr. Whitfield opened the file again and asked questions that shocked her.
“Has your husband ever been tested? Has he had a semen analysis? Any history of hormonal imbalance, varicocele, infection, chronic stress, substance use? Any genetic screening done for either of you?”
Nyla blinked. “No,” she whispered. “He refuses. His mom said men don’t get tested.”
Dr. Whitfield leaned back slightly.
“Mhm,” she said. “And that’s how ignorance keeps families trapped.”
Nyla’s stomach dropped.
