Agnes set the table, simmered a pot of pea and ham soup, and browned pies filled with mince and vegetables—since childhood, she’d believed the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. She tried, she hoped, she waited. Five years of marriage, and still, the house echoed with silence—no patter of tiny feet, no midnight cries. Doctors offered vague reassurances: “There’s still hope,” but Frederick dismissed the tests with a wave. He grew distant, sharp-tempered, cold. And his mother, Margaret, never missed a chance to remind Agnes of her supposed failure.
“You’ll never give me grandchildren because you can’t,” Margaret would snap. “My son’s healthy—it’s you who wasted your youth!”
Agnes wept through the nights. She visited every physician in London, endured procedures, handed over vials of blood. It was all pointless without Frederick’s cooperation. But he saw no reason to try—storming out, slamming doors, shouting that nothing bound them except the mortgage.
Still, she clung to hope.
That evening, as usual, Agnes waited for him. The kitchen smelled of roast beef and pastry, but instead of a greeting, his voice cut through the warmth.
“What a mess,” Frederick muttered, eyeing the unwashed pans.
“I was cooking—” she began, but he spoke over her.
“Doesn’t matter. Sit. There’s something I need to say.”
Her pulse quickened.
“All this—” he gestured vaguely— “whatever’s between us… it’s over. There’s someone else. Someone who loves me. I’m filing for divorce.”
She froze. One moment, golden pies cooled on the table; the next, her world crumbled.
“What about our plans?” she whispered.
“I have new ones. I still want children—just not with you.”
And with that, he was gone.
What followed was a nightmare of courtrooms, division of assets, sneers, shame. Margaret demanded the flat—her “precious Frederick” deserved inheritance, after all. No one pitied Agnes. Not even her mother could soothe the hurt.
“You’re still young,” Eleanor told her. “This isn’t the end.”
“I don’t want love. I don’t want anyone,” Agnes sobbed. “I’m ruined.”
But Eleanor refused to give up. She dragged her daughter to specialists, pulled her from despair, insisted she not write herself off.
Agnes relented—if only for her mother’s sake. More tests, more work, rare outings with friends. She buried the past as best she could, stitching together a quiet life. Love, she thought, was a door forever shut.
Until Edmund walked in.
“I don’t care about yesterday,” he said. “I only care about tomorrow.”
“But I may never give you children,” she confessed.
“Then we’ll adopt a tabby. Or a spaniel. As long as you’re beside me.”
They made a home together. Married within the year. Bought a modest house on loan, adopted a cat. Agnes laughed for the first time in ages—slowly, haltingly, she learned happiness again.
Five years passed. Then came Sophie and little George—miracles she’d stopped believing in. Loved, and loving in return, Agnes let peace settle over her like a well-worn shawl. The past stayed buried.
Until the day she crossed paths with Margaret in town.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” the older woman sneered. “Landed another rich one?”
“I’m just happy,” Agnes said evenly. “And you?”
“Oh, suffering through Frederick’s third wife,” Margaret sighed. “None measure up. Turns out you were the best of the lot.”
Agnes smiled but held her tongue. There was no satisfaction in spite.
“Any children, then?” Margaret pressed.
“We’re not close enough for that conversation.”
“Frederick still hasn’t any heirs… Perhaps you could—”
“No, thank you,” Agnes called over her shoulder, walking away.
Only when she turned the corner did the truth settle in her chest like sunlight: none of it had been for nothing. He left because he was never meant to stay. And in his place came the man who’d been waiting all along—carrying with him the lives she was meant to live for.
