Gregory was tying his shoelaces in the hallway, his mood sour after the morning’s argument with his wife. Susan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes red and swollen from crying. Fatigue had deepened the lines on her face—though she was only 38, far from old.
Feeling her gaze, Gregory sank onto the hallway bench, elbows on his knees, hands dangling listlessly. His eyes fixed on the blank wall ahead, hollow and exhausted.
“Susan, I can’t do this anymore,” he said hoarsely. “I’m tired of the hospitals, the treatments, the fridge stuffed with medication, the pills on the nightstand. It’s not working. Why put yourself—put *us*—through this?”
“Greg, please—just one more try,” Susan pleaded, her voice wavering. “You think it’s easy for me? Hoping every time, listening for a heartbeat, only to hear those awful words again—’It didn’t take.'”
“Susan, we need to stop. Plenty of couples live full lives without children. We could too.”
“Greg, *please*—” Her knees buckled as she slid down the doorframe, sinking toward the floor.
Gregory rushed forward, catching her under the arms and pulling her into a tight embrace. Neither was young anymore, but neither were they old—he was 46, still fit, clean-shaven, with thick salt-and-pepper hair.
“Alright,” he murmured, stroking her back as she trembled against him. “I’ll go to the clinic today. But you need to stay strong. Maybe we should wait… six months? Give yourself time?” He pulled back slightly, studying her tear-streaked face.
“No, it has to be now. The doctor said—”
“They *always* say,” Gregory snapped, shoving away abruptly. He snatched up his leather briefcase. “Same script, same damn result.”
“Greg!” she called after him as he jabbed the elevator button.
“I’ll go. I said I would.”
Susan wiped her eyes, swallowing the cocktail of pills and hormones prescribed by her doctors. She dressed for work—she still managed the beauty salon where she’d spent years, knowing every client by name. Later, she’d head to the clinic. This was her tenth round of IVF, but she’d seen women in their late forties succeed after twenty attempts. She *would* keep trying.
Gregory kept his promise—dropped by the clinic before catching his evening flight for another business trip. Susan joked to friends (and near-strangers in waiting rooms) that her husband only ever came home to “donate.” They’d lived like this for a decade. He’d finally made it—big flat in the city, a countryside house in the Cotswolds, luxury cars, holidays abroad twice a year. But she’d never become a mother.
She’d given everything to him—borrowed money during his failed ventures, endured scorn from relatives who called him reckless. They’d repaid every debt, but now, all she wanted was a child.
The procedure was familiar by now. Waiting was the hard part. Gregory called often from his trips, checking on her.
“Susan, how about a weekend in Brighton?” he said brightly one evening.
“Brighton? It’s November—what’s there?”
“Fantastic hotels, rooftop heated pools. Let’s get away. My deal closed—we should celebrate.”
“But I’ve got work.”
“Blow it off. I’ve told you—quit.”
“I *like* my job. And Lily’s off sick—”
“Just the weekend, then. I land tomorrow. Bags in the boot, and we’re off.”
The getaway was perfect. Gregory brimmed with pride, recounting how he’d outmaneuvered three competitors.
“No more trips for three months,” he promised, holding her on their suite’s plush sofa.
“I’m so happy,” Susan murmured, nestling closer. “We’ve been through so much.”
“It’s behind us now.” His hand traced circles on her robe. “Everything’s going to be fine.” She hesitated.
“Do you think… this time it’ll work?”
He shrugged. A million hopes, a million letdowns. He couldn’t bear to fuel hers—not when he’d seen the devastation each failure brought.
They returned refreshed. Routine resumed—clinic visits, work. A week later, Gregory packed again.
“Sorry. I promised, but the deal’s falling apart. I *have* to go.”
Susan packed his case just how he liked. She hadn’t driven him to Heathrow in years—he preferred his chauffeur.
Three weeks passed. When Susan called with the bad news, he was almost relieved to be gone. The tears, the depression—he’d expected it.
Upon his return, she begged him to try again. “Not now, but *don’t give up*.”
“How many times did your ventures fail?” she pressed. “You never quit.”
“Susan—” He dragged his hands through his hair, pacing their sitting room. “This isn’t a *company*. It’s your *health*. Look at yourself! Soon you’ll need a psychiatrist. Face it—we won’t have children.”
“And when I had those abortions because ‘it wasn’t the right time’—when we had *nothing*—you didn’t stop me. You *begged* me. Now you’re giving up?”
“You didn’t have *five*—don’t exaggerate.”
“Five. Then nothing. Like my grandmother warned. Now it *is* our time, and we can’t—”
“I never forced you!”
“I *chose* because I believed in *you*. But you don’t believe in *us*.”
“There *is no ‘us’* in this! There’s *you*, and *me*! I can’t watch you suffer anymore—”
The fight ended with Gregory storming out. He returned late, slept on the sofa. Days of silence followed before he spoke again, arriving home early to pack haphazardly in the bedroom.
“I’ll keep the flat in your name. The cars—take both. The country house…” He paused, shoving shirts into a suitcase. “Can you manage it? Renovations will take a year—financially—”
“Greg?” Susan sat on the bed’s edge, baffled. “Another trip?”
He sank opposite her, staring through the floor-to-ceiling windows at London’s skyline.
“I’m leaving,” he said flatly.
“You should’ve called. I’d have packed properly.” She tucked in a stray sleeve. “How long?”
“Permanently.”
“Trips don’t last forever.” Her laugh was hollow.
“It’s not work. There’s… someone. A colleague. She’s pregnant.”
“Young?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“A quick fling, and *she* gets pregnant.” Susan stood abruptly.
“Susan… I wanted a child too—a *son*. But it’s not happening for *us*. For *you*—”
“*How*?” she whispered.
“Maybe the abortions… I don’t know. It’s my fault. I’ll give you whatever you want. It’s all because of you—”
“Barren. Useless.” She wiped a tear. “Go. Your child needs a father.”
“Susan—” He couldn’t face her. Snapping the case shut, he fled—no dramatic slam, just the whisper of an Italian-engineered door.
The months blurred. Disbelief gave way to silent hysteria—calls he never answered. Within six months, divorce proceedings began. He visited twice, rationalizing, negotiating.
“Are you a father yet?” she’d ask. “Have you *finally* got everything?”
He never replied.
The settlement left her the flat, the cars—but not the country house. It had been meant for children.
Alone, she drowned in grief. The city lights mocked her—families behind curtains, neighbors with dogs and screaming toddlers. The couple upstairs fought weekly, their shouts leaking through the walls. *What a waste of time*, she thought.
Months later, illness landed her in an NHS ward, sharing with a brash market vendor who held court for half the floor.
“Why’re you sittin’ like a prune?” the woman finally barked when the crowd thinned. “Kid die or somethin’?”
“Empty. Nothing to lose.”
“Uterus gone?”
Susan shook her head.
“Then stop whingin’! I’ve got no tubes—18 rounds of IVF, and *bam*!” She snapped her fingers. “Got sick of beggin’ my bloke—useless sack. Twins on the way!”
“How?” Susan turned sharply.
“Donor sperm, love! Hubby’s swimmers were duds.”
“Your husband—?”
“Sod him! Forty-four—I’m not waitin’ on his mum’s say-so. Twenty-three years *wasted*.”
Susan sat up. “Tell me—the clinic. The cost.”
“Lunch first. Starvin’ yourself won’t grow a baby!”
And soThe laughter that followed—coarse, loud, and utterly alive—was the first sound in years that made Susan feel like she might still have a future worth fighting for.
