Gregory was tying his shoelaces in the hallway, his mood thoroughly foul after the row he’d had with his wife that morning. Cynthia stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes red and puffy from crying. The exhaustion etched deeper lines into her face, though she was only 38—hardly old, really.
Feeling her gaze, Gregory slumped onto the ottoman, elbows on his knees, hands dangling limply. He stared blankly at the wall, just as worn out as she was.
“Cynthia, I can’t keep doing this,” he said hoarsely. “I’m sick of hospitals, treatments, medicines crammed in the fridge, the bathroom, the nightstand. It’s not working! Why put yourself—put *us*—through this?”
“Greg, please—one last time,” she pleaded. “You think it’s easy for me? Hoping every time, hearing a heartbeat, then—nothing. ‘It didn’t take.’ Over and over.”
“Let’s just stop,” he snapped. “Plenty of couples live without kids and get on just fine!”
“Greg, I’m *begging* you—” Cynthia slid down the doorframe, as if ready to drop to her knees right there.
Gregory jerked up, catching her by the shoulders and pulling her into a tight hug. Neither of them was young, but they weren’t old either—not old enough for this misery. At 46, he was still trim, clean-shaven to a shadow, with thick, salt-and-pepper hair.
“Alright, alright,” he muttered, patting her back as she trembled in his arms. “I’ll stop by the clinic today, leave a sample. But *please*—calm down. You need to stay strong. Maybe we should wait, just six months?” He leaned back, studying her tear-streaked face.
“No, it has to be now. The doctor said—”
“They *always* say,” Gregory cut in, shoving her away slightly as he grabbed his leather briefcase. “Same script, same rubbish, same result.”
“Greg!” Cynthia called after him as he jabbed the lift button in the corridor.
“I’ll go. Promise.”
Cynthia dabbed her eyes, swallowed her prescribed cocktail of hormones and vitamins, then got ready for her errands—another clinic visit after lunch. This was her tenth round of IVF. She’d met women at the fertility centre who’d tried twenty times and still carried babies at 46, even 48. She was only 38, for heaven’s sake.
Gregory kept his word—dropped by the clinic, then jetted off on another business trip that evening. Cynthia often joked (darkly, to friends or near-strangers in waiting rooms) that her husband only came home to “donate samples.” The rest of the time? Work. That’d been their life for a decade. He’d built his success; she’d been his rock, even when he’d flopped *three times* and they’d been drowning in debt, scraping by in a rented flat. She’d borrowed money for him from friends, family, even her mother—enduring humiliating lectures about her “reckless” Greg. But she’d begged and taken it, never sparing herself.
They’d paid it all back when his luck turned. Now they were stable: a posh London flat, a countryside house being built in the Cotswolds, flashy cars, luxury holidays twice a year. But Cynthia hadn’t “made it” as a mother. She’d poured her health, her *self*, into him. Now, she just wanted a baby.
She’d worked years as a receptionist at a beauty salon—no career ambitions, just a life wrapped up in Greg. She still worked there, knew the regulars by name, *liked* the job.
Another round of IVF. More waiting. Greg called constantly from his trip, fussing over her health.
“Cyn, fancy a weekend in Brighton?” he chirped one evening.
“Brighton? It’s *November*, Greg. What’s there?”
“Lovely hotels! Heated rooftop pools. Come on—let’s escape. My deal’s closed; I need to unwind.”
“But I’ve got work.”
“Sod work! I’ve told you—quit.”
“I *like* it. Besides, Lily’s off sick.”
“Just the weekend, then! I land tomorrow—bags in the boot, and off we go. You’ll be back by Monday.”
They had a blissful two days. Greg gushed about outmanoeuvring rivals, sealing the deal.
“No trips for three months,” he vowed, cuddling her on their suite’s plush sofa.
“I’m so happy,” Cynthia murmured. “We’ve been through so much.”
“Past tense,” he said, stroking her fluffy robe. “It’s all upwards now. D’you think… this time’ll work?”
Greg shrugged. A million hopes, a million letdowns. He didn’t dare hope—not for himself, not for her.
They returned refreshed. Clinic visits, work, routine. A week later, Greg packed for another trip.
“Sorry—this cropped up. *Have* to fly.”
Cynthia packed his case just how he liked. She hadn’t seen him off at the airport in years—only if he asked. Usually, his driver handled it.
He was gone three weeks. When Cynthia called, sobbing, about another failed attempt, he was almost *glad* to be away. He’d known.
Back home, she begged to try again. Not now—later, but *don’t stop*.
“How many times did *you* fail before succeeding?” she pressed.
“Cynthia,” Greg groaned, pacing their living room. “A business isn’t a *baby*! Look at you—you’ll need a shrink soon. *Accept it*—we won’t have kids.”
“When I had abortions because ‘it wasn’t the time,’ you begged me. Now *you’re* giving up?”
“You didn’t have *that* many. Don’t exaggerate.”
“Five. Then nothing. Like Nan’s curse. I *cheered* then, but look at us now…”
“I never *made* you!”
“I believed in *you*. You don’t believe in *us*.”
“There *is* no ‘us’! Just you and me!” Greg snapped. “I can’t watch you suffer anymore—”
They fought. Greg stormed out, crashed on the sofa. Days of silence. Then, home early, he rambled about flats, the country house, while haphazardly stuffing his wardrobe into a suitcase.
“Keep the flat, the car—both, if you want. The house…” He frowned at the half-packed mess. “*Can* you handle it? Renovations’ll take a year, financially—”
“Greg,” Cynthia sat on the bed, baffled. “Another trip?”
He sighed, staring through their floor-to-ceiling windows at London’s skyline.
“I’m leaving.”
“Oh—you should’ve called. I’d have packed properly.” She fiddled with a crumpled shirt. “Long one?”
“For good.”
“That’s not a *trip*,” Cynthia laughed weakly.
“It’s not work. I… had a fling. A colleague. She’s pregnant.”
“Young?”
“Yeah.”
“Quick work,” Cynthia said flatly, standing.
“Cyn, *I* wanted a child too—a son! But it’s not happening with *us*—”
“How?” she whispered through tears.
“Maybe… those abortions wrecked something. *My* fault. I’ll give you whatever you want. We built this together—”
“Barren old cow,” Cynthia muttered, wiping her cheek. “Go. Your kid needs a dad.”
“Sorry,” Greg mumbled, snatching his case. The expensive Italian door clicked shut softly behind him—designed for dignified exits.
Cynthia spiralled. For months, she barely functioned. Half a year later, divorce papers came. Greg visited twice, trying to “talk.” She only asked:
“Been a dad yet? *Really* made it?”
He never answered.
She kept the flat, the car. The half-built country house? Pointless now.
Alone in her gleaming penthouse, Cynthia watched other lives through windows—couples bickering, kids, dogs. A noisy pair upstairs screamed weekly; she’d hear them on the landing. *Why waste time?*
Then—hospital. An infection. Budget cuts meant sharing a ward with a chatty market trader, whose visitors cackled over gossip. The woman finally cornered Cynthia.
“Oi, prune-face—what’s your deal? Lost a kid?”
“I’m *empty*,” Cynthia deadpanned.
“Uterus gone?”
“No.”
“Then *shut it*! I’ve no tubes, 18 rounds of IVF—gave up on my bloke. Used a donor. *Twins* coming!” She patted her belly.
“*How*?” Cynthia turned.
“Easy—donor sperm. *Bam*.”
“Your husband—?”
“*”Bugger the husband—I’ve got my babies, and that’s that.”
