How much I want to read more: 6/10

I usually don't read fiction, but I came across this title and it caught my attention.
Maybe I could just read a few paragraphs and see how it feels?

It feels great, polished, beautifully written.
I'm sure there's material here for imagination and reflection on one's own life.

How wouldn't you feel the strong will to carry a baby after reading this:
"I give color to the portrait where there is none and imagine that the fluid surrounding him or her is clear and warm, like a bath. I am convinced that the screeching of my daily commuter train’s wheels against the tracks is altered to sound like a symphony, rocking my child to sleep."

And how couldn't you feel transported by the balance of power as described:
“When did the bleeding start?” His voice changes to the one he uses in the courtroom, while mine weakens until it’s nearly muted. This is our dance — the one we learned by necessity, not choice. With each step, I falter and he gets stronger.

After reading those first paragraphs, I eventually reflect on my own life, how lucky my wife and I have been getting our first baby delivered and safe, and how fast is the assumption to take such an event for granted.
But I realize more, my mind is wandering in places I usually don't venture, and I realize how lucky and how grateful I am for my wife to have endured and risked her life, what she must have felt, how deep this experience was.
In this level of severity, how could I not see myself as a fool, for not giving as much love as I could and as much as she deserves? Is down pointing every wrongdoing worth it? What is our end-goal out of the fog? out of our worries and fears? Are we so weak that we can't help but be dragged down again and again for down-to-earth survival considerations and selfish means? How could I not see my life as a waste? Not only a waste of time but a waste of love, a waste of intensity, a waste of a wrong philosophy about my everyday attitude. Is my self-esteem so low that I can't rise and help to see a better picture for my self and for my second half?

I'm not used with "English literature", but those two clipping just comes so elegantly pictured in the mind:
“Please, how long?” Like shards of glass, my words come out broken.
He grips my hand — the only sign I have of his pain. My hand lies lifeless in his.


PROLOGUE

SUMMER 2000

Twenty percent of women miscarry. Of these, 80 percent lose the baby in the first twelve weeks of their pregnancy.
If you are more than thirty years old, you have at least a 12 percent chance of miscarrying, the percentage points increasing with each advancing year.

For every couple that successfully fills a home with a family, another will never become parents.

I give color to the portrait where there is none and imagine that the fluid surrounding him or her is clear and warm, like a bath. I am convinced that the screeching of my daily commuter train’s wheels against the tracks is altered to sound like a symphony, rocking my child to sleep.

“When did the bleeding start?” His voice changes to the one he uses in the courtroom, while mine weakens until it’s nearly muted. This is our dance—the one we learned by necessity, not choice. With each step, I falter and he gets stronger.

“Please, how long?” Like shards of glass, my words come out broken.

He grips my hand — the only sign I have of his pain. My hand lies lifeless in his.