Emily clenched the test results in her fist, the paper damp from sweat. The corridor of the clinic was packed, barely any room to move.
“Emily Thompson!” a nurse called out.
Emily stood and walked into the doctor’s office. The doctor—a tired-eyed woman with a no-nonsense air—took the folder and skimmed through the pages.
“Sit down,” she said flatly. “Everything’s normal with you. Your husband needs to get checked.”
Emily’s stomach dropped. *James? But he’s…*
***
At home, her mother-in-law was chopping carrots for a stew, the knife slamming against the board like she was fighting an invisible enemy.
“Well, dear, any news?” Margaret asked, not looking up.
“I’m fine,” Emily muttered, hanging up her coat.
“Then why—?” Margaret finally lifted her gaze. A flicker of worry crossed her face.
“James needs to be tested.”
The knife froze mid-air. Margaret straightened up, stiff as a board.
“Rubbish! My son’s perfectly healthy. It’s those quacks at the clinic—back in my day, women had babies without all these tests.”
Emily walked to the bedroom. Socks lay scattered on the bed—one navy, one black. She picked them up mechanically and tossed them into the laundry basket.
Three years married, and those mismatched socks had become a symbol of their life—disjointed, never a pair.
James came home late.
“What’s with the long face?” he grumbled, flopping into the armchair.
“We need to talk.”
“About what?”
She handed him the papers. He skimmed them, then tossed them onto the coffee table.
“And?”
“You need to get checked.”
“What for?” James shot up, pacing the room. “I’m fine! Look at me!”
And he did look fine—broad-shouldered, thick dark hair. But health isn’t always something you can see.
“James, please—”
“Enough!” he snapped. “If you don’t want kids, just say so! Why drag doctors into it?”
From the kitchen came the shuffle of slippers. Margaret was eavesdropping, her breaths loud enough to hear.
“I want kids more than anything,” Emily said quietly.
“Then why haven’t we got any? Maybe you’re hiding something. Had a termination, and now you can’t?”
The blow stung. Emily recoiled.
“How could you—?”
“How else? Three years and nothing! And now some doctor says *I’m*—” He cut himself off, fists clenched.
The door flew open. Margaret stormed in like a bulldozer.
“James, don’t listen to her! She’s got too much time on her hands. If she worked more, she wouldn’t be dragging you to doctors.”
Emily looked at her husband. He turned to the window.
“James, do you really think I—?”
“I don’t know what to think,” he muttered. “But I know one thing—real men don’t go to doctors.”
Margaret nodded triumphantly.
“Exactly. That’s women’s business.”
Something inside Emily snapped—like a string pulled too tight.
“Fine,” she said flatly.
The next day, the war began. Margaret nitpicked everything—the salt left out, a pan not scrubbed well enough, dust on the dresser. Emily stayed quiet, teeth gritted.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be sitting around at all,” Margaret sneered at dinner. “Get a proper job instead of wasting time at clinics.”
James chewed his dinner, eyes down.
“I *do* work,” Emily reminded her.
“Three days a week? That’s not work—that’s a hobby!”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Everything! My son’s healthy, and you’re making him out to be defective! If there’s no baby, it’s *always* the woman’s fault!”
Emily stood up, legs shaky.
“Where are you going?” Margaret scoffed. “Run off already?”
“I’m tired.”
“Tired? From what? Three days’ work isn’t exactly backbreaking!”
James finally looked up. Something like pity flickered in his eyes. But he stayed silent.
That night, Emily lay listening to James’s snores. Once, the sound had comforted her—proof he was there. Now it grated. How had she never noticed how stubborn he was?
In the morning, she packed a duffel bag—just a few dresses, underwear, her toiletries.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” Margaret stood in the kitchen doorway, tea in hand.
“To Gran’s.”
“How long?”
“Dunno.”
James came out of the bathroom, saw the bag.
“Em, what’s this?”
“Exactly what it looks like.”
“You’re serious?”
“What else? You won’t get tested, your mum blames me—why should I stay?”
He stepped closer, voice low.
“Don’t be daft. Where’ll you go?”
“Nana’s flat.”
“That shoebox? It’s tiny!”
“Cosy, though,” she said drily.
Margaret snorted.
“Good! Let her go. Maybe she’ll appreciate what she had here.”
James shot his mum a glare but didn’t argue.
Emily slung the bag over her shoulder.
“Em!” he called as she reached the door.
She turned. He stood in the hallway, damp-haired, lost.
“When are you coming back?”
“When you see a doctor.”
The door clicked shut.
Nana gasped when she saw Emily with her bag.
“Love! What’s happened?”
“Fell out with James. Can I stay a bit?”
“’Course, pet. It’s cramped, though…”
The flat *was* tiny—a bed, a table, two chairs, an ancient telly. But it was clean, and it smelled of cinnamon—Nana loved baking.
“Tell me what’s gone on,” Nana said, putting the kettle on.
Emily spilled everything. Nana listened, shaking her head.
“Oh, love… Men and their pride. Admitting something’s wrong? Like pulling teeth.”
“So I’m supposed to wait forever for him to grow up?”
“No. You did right leaving. Let him stew.”
The first few days were calm. Emily settled on the pull-out bed, helped Nana with chores. James called, but she didn’t pick up.
Then Nana started complaining of chest pains. The paramedics insisted on hospital.
“Don’t fret, pet,” Nana whispered as they wheeled her out. “I’m old—these things happen.”
At the hospital, she improved. Emily visited daily, bringing homemade meals and gossip.
“How’s James?” Nana asked once.
“Still stubborn. Called a few times, yelling down the phone.”
“And you answered?”
“Once. Not after that. What’s the point?”
“What if he’s been to the doctor?”
“Doubt it.”
The corridor was crowded. Emily nearly bumped into a man in a white coat—young, sandy-haired, kind-eyed.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
“No worries. Who’re you visiting?”
“My nan, Room 7.”
“Ah, Doris! Lovely lady.” He smiled. “Dr. Daniel Hart, cardiology.”
“Emily.”
“Pleasure. Don’t worry—your nan’s tough. Just age catching up.”
He talked treatment, prognosis. Emily found herself watching his hands—long fingers, neat nails. Steady hands.
“Thank you,” she said.
The next day, he lingered to chat. And the next. Emily started arriving early, hoping to see him.
“Love,” Nana said one day, sly, “that doctor keeps asking if you’re coming. Nice lad. Single, too.”
Emily flushed.
“Nana!”
“What? You’re practically free. That James of yours—”
“I’m *married*.”
“Pfft.”
A week later, Daniel got transferred. On his last day, he stopped her in the corridor.
“I’ll miss seeing you,” he said simply.
“Me too,” she admitted.
He handed her a card.
“If you ever need anything. Or just want to talk.”
Their fingers brushed.
“Thank you.”
“And… you’re beautiful. And so sad. I hope that changes someday.”
Nana got discharged. Back home, she grew stronger, but Emily still worried leaving her alone.
James kept calling. Sometimes Emily answered, sometimes she didn’t. The last time, he’d yelled that she was “acting like a spoiled brat.” She’d hung up and stopped picking up.
A month later, an unknown number rang.
“Emily? Daniel’s mum. He gave me your number…”
“Is something wrong?”
“Oh no! It’s his birthday tomorrow—he’d love to see you. Could you come?”
Emily hesitated. Nana, eavesdropping, waved her hands.
“Go on! When did you last have fun?”As Emily pushed the pram past James and Margaret a year later, their stunned silence said everything—he’d realized his mistake far too late, and now her new life, with Daniel and their baby, was everything she’d ever wanted.
