My cousin got married at 22. They wanted a house full of kids. She got pregnant within months, they painted a nursery before the first trimester was even over. Then she miscarried. She had a procedure. Woke up groggy. Doctor smiled and said, “Everything’s fine. You can try again soon.” They tried for years. Every negative test felt like a verdict. Her in-laws started making comments. Her husband grew distant. Eventually he left. Said he “wanted a real family.” He remarried within a year. Two babies back to back. She thought her body had betrayed her. In her late 50s, after new medical transparency laws made it easier to request old hospital files, she applied for her records. Buried in the notes from that miscarriage was a line: “Complication during procedure. Uterine perforation. Significant scarring.” No one had explained it. No follow-up. No referral. No honesty. She spent three decades blaming herself for something that happened to her. Some women are told their bodies failed them. Sometimes the truth is — someone else did.