Greg was tying his shoelaces in the hallway, his mood as foul as the weather outside. He and his wife had been at each other’s throats since breakfast. Lucy leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her eyes red and puffy from crying. The exhaustion etched deeper lines into her face than a 38-year-old should have—she wasn’t old, not really.
Feeling her stare, Greg slumped onto the ottoman, elbows on his knees, hands dangling. He fixed his tired gaze on the blank wall ahead. “Lucy, I can’t do this anymore, alright?” His voice came out rough. “I’m sick of the hospitals, the treatments, the bloody medicines in the fridge, the bathroom, the nightstand. It’s not working. Why put yourself—put us—through this?”
“Greg, please—one last try,” Lucy whispered, sliding down the doorframe like she might sink to her knees right there. “You think it’s easy for me? Hoping every time, hearing a heartbeat, then—” She swallowed hard. “Then the same rotten words: ‘It didn’t take.’”
“Lucy, let’s just stop. Thousands of couples live without kids and don’t crumble.”
“Greg, I’m begging you—”
He sprang up, catching her by the shoulders before she could kneel, pulling her into a crushing hug. They weren’t young, but they weren’t ancient either—he was only 46, fit and sharp for his age, with a strong jaw and salt-and-pepper hair.
“Alright, fine,” he muttered, rubbing her back as she trembled. “I’ll swing by the clinic today, drop off the sample. Stop crying—you’ve got to stay strong. Maybe we should wait, though? Six months?” He leaned back to study her tear-streaked face.
“No, it has to be now. The doctor said—”
“They always say something,” Greg snapped, shoving her gently away as he grabbed his leather messenger bag. “Same script, same bloody result.”
“Greg!” Lucy called after him. He was already jabbing the lift button.
“I’ll go. Promise.”
Lucy wiped her face, swallowed her pills—hormones, vitamins, whatever the doctors had lined up—and got ready for her afternoon clinic appointment. Tenth round of IVF. She’d seen women at the fertility centre who’d tried twenty times and still carried babies at 46, 48. She was only 38, for heaven’s sake.
Greg kept his word, dropped by the clinic, then jetted off on another business trip that evening. Lucy joked with friends (and near-strangers in the waiting room) that her husband’s sole contribution was the occasional “sample drop-off.” Their life for the past decade: him working, her holding the fort. She’d believed in him even when his third business venture crashed, leaving them drowning in debt, renting a crummy flat. She’d borrowed money from friends, even her mum, endured the lectures about her “reckless” Greg. But she’d done it.
And they’d clawed their way back. Now? A posh central London flat, a countryside house halfway built in the Cotswolds. Reliable cars, two holidays a year minimum. But she’d never become a mum. Years as a salon manager hadn’t given her the fulfilment she craved—just a close-knit clientele and a job she didn’t hate.
Another round of IVF. More waiting. Greg called daily from his trip, fussing over her health.
“Lu, fancy a weekend in Brighton?” he asked one evening, chirpy.
“Brighton? In November? What’s there to do?”
“Luxury hotels, rooftop heated pools. Come on, let’s escape. I just closed a massive deal—we should celebrate.”
“I’ve got work.”
“Sod work! I’ve told you a hundred times—quit.”
“I like it. Besides, Lily’s off sick—I can’t bail.”
“Just the weekend! I land tomorrow, we’ll chuck bags in the boot and go. You’ll be back by Monday.”
Those two days were bliss. Greg raved about outmanoeuvring rivals, sealing the deal. “No more trips for three months,” he vowed, holding her on their suite’s plush sofa.
“I’m so happy,” Lucy murmured. “We’ve been through so much.”
“It’s behind us,” he said, stroking her fluffy bathrobe. “We’ve got everything to look forward to. You think this time’ll stick?”
Greg shrugged. A million tries, a million letdowns. He couldn’t bear to hope—not when he’d seen how wrecked she got after each failure.
Back home, refreshed and loved-up, Lucy returned to the clinic, Greg to his beloved company. A week later, another trip.
“Sorry, Lu. Promised I wouldn’t, but it’s unavoidable.”
She packed his suitcase just how he liked—shirts colour-coded, pressed. He hadn’t let her drive him to the airport in years; preferred his chauffeur.
Three weeks later, the call came: another failure. Lucy sobbed; Greg was almost relieved to be abroad. By the time he returned, she was begging for another try.
“Not now, but soon. Don’t give up.”
“How many times did your business fail?” she pressed. “You never quit!”
“Bloody hell, Lucy!” Greg paced, gripping his head. “A company’s not a child! Look at you—you’ll wind up in therapy at this rate. Face it: we’re not having kids.”
“You didn’t stop me when I had abortions because ‘it wasn’t the right time.’ Now it is, and you’re bailing!”
“You didn’t have five, stop exaggerating.”
“Three. Then nothing. Like Nan said would happen. And now—” Her voice broke. “Now we can’t.”
“I never forced you!”
“I believed in you. You don’t believe in us.”
“There is no ‘us’! There’s you, and there’s me!” Greg shot back. “I can’t watch you suffer like this.”
The fight ended with Greg storming out, crashing on the sofa. Days of icy silence followed. Then, home early, he stuffed clothes haphazardly into a case, rambling about the flat, the country house.
“Flat’s yours. The car—both cars if you want. The house?” He frowned at the half-packed mess—usually, Lucy did this. “Might take a year to finish. Can you handle it?”
“Greg,” Lucy sat on the bed, baffled. “Another trip?”
He dropped onto the opposite side, staring at the skyline. “I’m leaving.”
“For long?”
“For good.”
“That’s not a business trip,” she said faintly.
“Lucy… I had a fling. With someone from work. She’s pregnant.”
“Young?”
“Yeah.”
“One fling, and bam—pregnant.” Lucy stood abruptly.
“Lucy, I wanted a kid as much as you. But it wasn’t happening. Maybe—maybe it’s those abortions… My fault. I’ll give you whatever you want. We built this together.”
“Barren old cow,” Lucy muttered, wiping a tear. “Go on, then. The baby needs a dad.”
“Lucy, I’m sorry—” He snapped the case shut and left. The expensive Italian door didn’t slam—designed not to.
Lucy spiralled. Months passed in a haze. She called Greg out of habit; he never answered. The divorce was swift. He offered the flat, the cars—but the half-built country house? Too much.
Alone in her gleaming penthouse, she watched neighbours through their windows—couples with kids, dogs, arguments. A hospital stay (chest infection, stress) landed her with a chatty market-trader roommate, Margo, who held court with other patients.
“Oi, sourpuss!” Margo barked. “You lost a kid or what?”
“Barren,” Lucy mumbled.
“Uterus gone?”
Lucy shook her head.
“Then quit whinging! I’ve got no tubes, 18 rounds of IVF—finally took! Twins!” She patted her belly. “Donor sperm. Husband’s swimmers were rubbish.”
“Your husband’s okay with that?”
“Who cares? I’m 44—done waiting for him to grow a spine.”
Lucy sat up. “Tell me about the donor process.”
“Get some food in you first. Skinny mare like you won’t carry a sprog!”
That was the start. Margo’s crude jokes pulled Lucy from her funk. Months later, IVF at the local clinic—donor sperm, first try. A perfect baby girl, 6lbs 3oz of pure joy.
At discharge, Lucy barely noticed the tall woman in silk pyjamas—same surname on her paperwork. Just a coincidence.
(The woman was delivering her second boy. Greg collected her—young, gorgeous, two sons. But business was rocky. Contracts lost when she needed Maldives trips. And she refused to pack his shirts properly. She’d given him what he wanted—nowAnd as Lucy buckled her daughter into the car seat, she realized—finally—that happiness wasn’t something given, but something built, one stubborn brick at a time.
