He Knew I Was Infertile but Still Insisted on Marrying Me — On Our Wedding Night, I Was Stunned to Learn Why

I used to think that an infertile woman was like a tree that bore no fruit — no matter how lush and green, it was hard for people to choose it. So when the doctor told me I couldn’t have children naturally, I nearly collapsed.

I was only 28, healthy, with a stable job, and I had never imagined the day I’d be labeled “infertile.” The cause was severe polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS) and extremely imbalanced hormones, which made my chances of conceiving nearly zero. I spent an entire month avoiding the outside world, skipping every coffee date or gathering with friends out of fear someone would ask, “When are you getting married and having kids?”

At the time, I was dating him — a man four years older than me, kind, meticulous, and serious. We had only been together for about five months, but he was already talking about marriage. And I… panicked. I couldn’t let him marry someone who couldn’t have children. I decided to tell him the truth.

I still remember how much I trembled that day. I drank half a glass of water and still couldn’t bring myself to speak. Finally, I mustered all my courage and said:

“I… I can’t have children. The doctor said the chances are almost zero. If you want to break up, I understand.”

I didn’t dare look into his eyes. My heart pounded so hard it felt like it would leap out of my chest.

But he only asked me one question:

“Does it hurt?”

I nodded, unable to say a word. And then… he took my hand and gently squeezed it:

“If you agree to marry me, then from now on, having children is our matter, not just yours. We’ll try together. And if we never have a child, having each other is already enough.”

I cried. I cried like I had never cried before. In that moment, I didn’t need him to promise me anything grand. I just needed the way he looked at me—not with pity, not with regret, not with calculation. And so… we got married.

But then, on our wedding night, just when I thought I had known everything about him, he surprised me once again.

We had just entered the room when he opened a drawer and took out a paper box. Inside was… a set of medical test results. A medical report. His.

“Read it,” he said. “Then you’ll understand why I insisted on marrying you, even knowing you couldn’t have children.”

I trembled as I opened it. It clearly stated: he also had issues with his sperm—low count, poor quality, and an almost nonexistent chance of natural conception. I looked at him in shock. He just smiled gently:

“I’ve known for three years. I also once thought I wasn’t worthy of anyone. But when I met you, I felt like we were… the same. We both hurt, we both feared, we both lacked something—but we hadn’t lost hope. I didn’t want to live my life trapped in shame. So I thought… two people who can’t have children—maybe, just maybe, if they’re together, heaven will show mercy.”

I threw my arms around him. In my entire life, I had never met anyone who dared to believe in something so fragile—until I met him. From that wedding night on, we began our journey to “find a child.” We went to checkups together, underwent treatments together, endured every injection, every failure, every long and exhausting month.

There were months when I was three days late, and he would get excited—only to quietly throw away the test strip when there was only one line. There were months when I cried from the pain of egg stimulation, and he would sit beside me, watching over me as I slept, then wake up early to make me porridge.

Never once did I feel alone on this path to motherhood, even when everything was still uncertain. And then, during a time when we had nearly lost all hope, we tried IVF (in vitro fertilization) for the first time—and my egg implanted. But we couldn’t hold on to it.

The second time, I decided to keep silent and tell no one—not even my own mother—because I was afraid of hoping again only to be disappointed. I just told my husband, “Let’s just think of this round as emotional training for me. Don’t get your hopes up too much.”

But heaven had mercy. I tested positive. And this time, we heard a clear heartbeat. The doctor said, “The baby is strongly implanted and very healthy. You both can rest easy and focus on taking care of the pregnancy.” I cried right there on the examination table. And my husband, waiting outside, let his tears fall freely without even wiping them away.

Now I’m six months pregnant. Every morning when I wake up, I hear my husband talking to my belly as if he’s chatting with an old friend. Every time the baby kicks, he exclaims, “Did our baby just kick Daddy? So strong today!”

I don’t know what challenges the future still holds. But I do know that if it weren’t for that wedding night, if it weren’t for the moment we uncovered the truth we both once believed to be a “defect,” we wouldn’t have made it to this day.

It turns out that sometimes, heaven brings two imperfect people together—just to create a miracle.