Many years ago, in a quiet corner of Kent, lived a woman named Eleanor Whitaker. She had been feeling unwell for days, weighed down by a fatigue she couldn’t shake. The thought of food turned her stomach, and though there were countless chores to attend to, all she wished was to lie still. A pregnancy test confirmed what she already suspected.
Just two years had passed since her return from maternity leave, barely enough time to recover from nappies and sleepless nights—and now this. The news unsettled her. Oliver, her eldest, would soon turn five, and little Evelyn had just started Year Two. Both needed her care, her attention. Would they understand when a new sibling arrived? Would they resent the baby?
“A child is a blessing,” she reminded herself. “When God sends the babe, He sends the bread.” Yet the times were uncertain. When had life ever been easy? Women had borne children even in wartime. But what of her job? Soon she would have to tell them she would be leaving again, taking sick leave, missing work. Would there even be a job to return to with three little ones? They would have to stretch Thomas’s wages thin—benefits would help, but still…
She wrestled with doubt, delaying the moment she must share the news with her husband.
Not long ago, her manager had asked if anyone planned to take maternity leave. Their team was mostly women, so his concern was understandable. Eleanor, like the others, had assured him she was done—a boy and a girl were more than enough. And now this.
*Why am I worrying about work? Family comes first.* Yet as days passed, she remained torn, unable to settle her mind.
One evening, after supper, Thomas studied her. “You’re pale. I’ve asked you three times what we’re getting Oliver and Evelyn for their birthdays, and you haven’t heard a word. Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”
At last, she told him. He was silent a moment before asking, “What shall we do?”
Not *what will you do*, but *we*. That was Thomas—never leaving her to face hardship alone. Shame pricked her for keeping it to herself. A weight lifted as she confessed her fears.
“We’ve managed two; we’ll manage a third,” he said firmly.
“But I’ll be on leave. We’ll rely on your salary alone—what if I can’t return to work?”
“We’ll manage. I’ll take extra shifts.” Then, bluntly: “Or do you mean to end it?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “You’ll work all hours. I’ll be trapped at home, tending children. Life will slip by.”
“It slips by either way,” he said gently. “We’ve time yet to decide.”
She nodded, grateful for the reprieve.
But other worries gnawed at her. “Where will we all fit?” She glanced around their cramped two-bedroom cottage, inherited from Thomas’s grandmother.
“I’ll speak to my parents,” he offered. “They’ve three rooms for two. Father mentioned swapping when Evelyn was born.”
Eleanor said nothing, though doubt lingered.
Predictably, her mother-in-law balked. “She’s done this on purpose, to take our home! You indulge her too much.”
“It was my idea,” Thomas countered. “Eleanor had no part in it.”
“And now you’d turn us out in our old age? We’re settled here!” His mother clutched her heart dramatically. “But you think only of yourselves!”
“I only asked. Never mind—we’ll manage.”
“They’ll manage,” she scoffed. “Or perhaps she’ll *not* have the child. Two is plenty these days. It would be best for everyone.”
Thomas returned tight-lipped. Eleanor read his face and asked no questions.
Time slipped away. Some days, she pictured another child—tiny fingers, soft cries. Other days, she recoiled at the thought of nappies and endless chores. The deadline loomed; still, she wavered.
Then came the dream: a girl of five, skipping through the house, singing, a wicker basket in hand—like Red Riding Hood’s. “What’s inside?” Eleanor asked. The child peered in, then looked up, her eyes brimming with sorrow. Eleanor looked—the basket was empty.
She awoke unsettled. Part of her rejoiced—a daughter! But the empty basket haunted her.
A week later, Thomas asked again. She told him of the dream.
“Only a dream,” he soothed. “A daughter would be your little helper.”
*How good he is*, she thought. *I’ll have this child. With him, I can face anything.*
Another moment sealed her choice. At a friend’s birthday gathering—a grand house, the hostess radiant—Eleanor scolded the children for noise.
“Let them play!” the woman laughed, though sadness flickered in her eyes. “What joy, to hear children’s laughter! If I could, I’d have as many as God granted.”
“Surely modern medicine could help?”
“IVF? We’ve tried. Now I’d take in a foster child, but my husband still hopes…” She sighed. “Once he agrees, we’ll adopt two—a boy and a girl.”
That night, Eleanor resolved to keep the baby.
Then her mother-in-law intruded, demanding bluntly: “Have you ended it yet?”
“It’s too late,” Eleanor lied, though the choice still stood.
“I knew it! Two isn’t enough? Couldn’t you prevent it? Thomas works two jobs—he’s worn thin! And you—look at you! Breeding poverty, is it?”
“You bore one, yet you waddle like you’ve birthed a football team,” Eleanor snapped.
“How dare—!” The woman rounded on Thomas. “She insults me, and you say nothing?”
“You insulted first,” he replied coldly. “We’ll manage without your help.”
Spitefully, she vowed to give none and stormed out.
Eleanor cared little. She had managed before.
At last, she made her choice. On a Friday, she left work early, bound for the clinic. Autumn’s chill was setting in; leaves swirled in puddles as she walked, dreaming of next summer—picnics, walks, a new baby in her arms.
Then—a blur. A shout.
She never saw the electric scooter. The impact sent her sprawling, consciousness slipping away before she could cry out.
When Thomas arrived at the hospital, she was still groggy from surgery.
“We couldn’t save the baby,” the doctor said gently. “Early yet—there’ll be no lasting harm.”
“It’s my fault,” she whispered later. “God punished me for doubting.”
“Don’t blame yourself.” Thomas clasped her hand. “That reckless rider—they’ll never catch him. These scooters ought to be banned. But you must heal now.”
Weeks later, discharged, she inhaled the crisp autumn air, eyes lifting to the grey sky in silent penance.
Ever after, the whirr of a scooter sent her shrinking to the pavement’s edge. Headaches plagued her—ghosts of guilt, of loss.
Such is human nature—to fear, to hesitate, to mourn what we feared to keep.
Perhaps the universe had heard her doubts and taken the choice from her hands.
