It amazes me: The moment I feel at peace with not being pregnant – peaceful enough to enjoy a day at work and run back home through the rain, all the while thinking about everything in life that isn’t having a baby – DH hits rock bottom. I often marvel at a person’s capacity to balance out the other in a relationship or a close friendship; like an old fashioned pair of scales, when you’re up, they are down, when you’re down, they are up and if you’re lucky, you’re having tea together on a level playing field. If you’re lucky.

But it’s not like DH to be down. Not at all like him. For all I know he could have been “down” for the past six weeks. He hasn’t said anything. I find most men, my own DH included, inscrutable when it comes to expressing their immediate feelings. News flash. Tell me something I don’t know, you say. I cough up my feelings like a cat coughs up fur balls. I only need the slightest tickle and ker-chunk, it’s right there on the table – a tangled, claggy, ragged mess of emotion. Scrutinising how DH feels, on the other hand, is like saddling up and setting out for a remote island, somewhere, off the shore of godknowswhere. I often don’t have a map and I could ride for days without the clues I need to find the something I think I might be looking for.

So I know, I sense, he feels crap and I take a look at the clues. His enthusiasm for the new eating and exercise regime is waning. He spends hours in his study “reading up” when he should be writing. He replies to every one of my emails 45 seconds after I send them. I know he is off- centre because his hair is now so long it’s vertical and because he asks me to pop to the shops for new remedies and potions that could “help”. But mostly I know he is down because his big, brown eyes look sad.

I hazard a guess and I say, “This baby stuff, it doesn’t really matter you know. None of it matters. What matters most is you and me… me and you. Our life together is great. We have fun, we have a good marriage, a fun marriage. We’ll have a baby, one day. Let’s just enjoy the time we have together.”

Then I realise I sound like one of us is dying of cancer and I take it back, “What I mean is, let’s just enjoy all the things that people with babies, can’t do.”

But he doesn’t say anything and he still looks sad, “We’re a team,” I try again, “We’ll get through every obstacle this thing throws at us. Each and every one.” Only he doesn’t say anything and it’s like he’s looking through me.

Then I realise what the problem is.

He is blaming himself.

And I speak again, “You and me,” I say, “Me and you.. It’s all that matters.” And I say it again. And again. Because every cell of my body believes it and I don’t know how else to express it.