Tanya and Boris were seen as the perfect couple—both striking, successful, well-off—but they had no children. Doctors could only shrug, offering grim diagnoses. Still, they clung to hope. They prayed, visited churches, even sought out healers in remote villages. One old woman assured them they’d have children, more than one, but only after pain and loss. Tanya barely listened, too overjoyed to hear anything but the promise.
People whispered behind her back. “Why not enjoy their money, travel? Kids grow up ungrateful anyway.” Others scoffed, “She’s too old for babies—should be thinking of grandchildren!” But how could there be grandchildren without children?
Once, Tanya told Boris he should leave her, find someone younger who could give him a child. The look he gave her made her regret the words instantly. They never spoke of it again.
They had everything—careers, a flat in London, money—but it wasn’t enough. Tanya knew she’d be the best mother. She imagined rocking a tiny version of them both, first steps, first days at school. Sometimes she convinced herself, “Plenty live happily without children. Maybe it’s just not meant to be.” She searched for flaws in herself, reasons God might deny her this.
Then, one day, the miracle they’d prayed for happened.
Tanya hadn’t tracked her cycle in years. When nausea hit one morning, she blamed last night’s dinner. But it returned the next day. Then the smell of cooking meat made her queasy. Could it be…? No, surely not. Still, she bought two tests.
We beg for miracles, then doubt them when they come. Tanya stared at those two pink lines, stunned. She barely let Boris step through the door before blurting, “I’m pregnant,” shoving the test at him. They clung to each other, tears drying on their cheeks.
Boris fretted over her, banning heavy lifting, insisting on carrying groceries. “Stop fussing,” she’d snap. “Women older than me have babies!”
“I don’t care about other women,” he’d murmur, kissing her. “I just want you both safe.”
When her bump showed, reactions split. Some genuinely happy, others less kind. “Finally did IVF, eh?” One neighbor muttered, “She’ll lose it, or have a freak.” Tanya hurried away, stroking her belly. “Don’t listen. You’ll be perfect.” She already knew it was a girl.
She’d avoided baby shops before; now she browsed proudly, picking the prettiest outfits. At home, she’d unfold them, imagining her daughter in each, pressing the tiny fabric to her face. It smelled of store starch, but it was *hers*.
They booked the best private hospital, opting for a C-section—no risks after waiting so long. Their daughter arrived healthy. Every day, they whispered thanks to whatever forces had granted this.
No breast milk came, so they bought the finest formula. They’d watch for hours as she slept. First teeth, first words, first steps. Boris urged Tanya to quit her job. “No nurseries—she’ll just catch germs.”
Their daughter became Tanya’s world. Lucy grew up loved, sweet, no trouble at all.
Happiness becomes routine. Lucy started school. One evening, as she did homework and Boris read the paper, Tanya cooked. Realizing she’d forgotten mayo, she dashed out. “Back in a sec.”
“Alright,” Boris mumbled, not looking up.
Returning, she finished dinner. But when she called Lucy, the girl wasn’t home. “Boris, where’s Lucy?”
“Ran over to Sophie’s.”
“How long ago?”
“When you left.”
Tanya checked the clock—6:30. They say mothers sense doom, but she felt nothing. Sophie lived next door. No reason to worry.
They ate without her. Then Tanya called Sophie’s landline. Her mum answered. “Hello, it’s Lucy’s mum. Time she came home.”
“She’s not here. We thought you’d said no.”
“*What?*” The phone slipped from Tanya’s hand.
Boris bolted up. “What?”
“Sophie’s mum says she never came…”
They tore through the streets, shouting her name. Autumn nights dark early, streetlights glowing. No one had seen her. Lucy had vanished.
Boris called the police. “Don’t worry, we’ll find her,” said the officer. They waited, jumping at every call. Nothing.
Days passed. No trace. Tanya refused despair, clinging to hope. Months slid by. Boris stopped talking, stopped meeting her eyes. He aged overnight, shoulders bowed. He worked late, drank. Easier to grieve apart.
Tanya badgered the police. The officer—Mathew—avoided her gaze, mumbling excuses. She took a job to distract herself. Colleagues tiptoed around kid-talk, but near Christmas, chatter about gifts and school plays erupted. Tanya walked out.
“Should we pretend we’re childless for *her*?” someone hissed.
At home, she raged at Boris. “This is *your* fault! If you’d stopped her—!”
He didn’t argue. Just drank more. Finally, he left. She didn’t stop him.
Three years later, spring came early. Tanya rarely left the house, but today she walked to the Thames. Sun on her face. Below, a man played fetch with his German Shepherd. The dog bounded after the stick, brought it back, got a pat.
Lucy had wanted a pet. Boris was allergic to cats. They’d argued over breeds—he hated small dogs, she feared big ones like that Shepherd. “If we’d just gotten one… maybe she wouldn’t have gone to Sophie’s.”
The man climbed the steps. Tanya stared at the water.
“Tanya?”
She turned. It was Mathew, the officer. His dog—Rick—watched her with wise eyes. She asked to pet him.
“Go ahead. He likes women.”
Rick’s ears twitched under her touch. They walked along the embankment. She was grateful he didn’t ask about Lucy. Instead, she mentioned Lucy’s wish for a dog.
Mathew sighed. “I lost my family too. Wife and son—hit by a drunk driver. My colleagues gave me Rick. Saved me.”
His grief mirrored hers. She’d thought her pain unmatched.
“Did they catch the driver?”
“Prison. Still there.” He paused. “Come for tea. I’ll drive you home after.”
Rick’s expectant stare decided it.
Mathew fumbled slicing cheese for sandwiches. “Let me.” She took the knife, cutting neat slices.
“Women’s touch,” he said.
Over tea, he shared funny work stories. She laughed—really laughed—for the first time in years.
At her doorstep, he said, “I remember your address. And—let’s use first names, yeah?”
That night, she didn’t dread the silence. Guilt flickered—thinking of him, not Lucy. But the day had been too warm, too light. *Enough. Time to live.*
September came, dry and golden. Tanya’s birthday. She hadn’t celebrated since Lucy. Forty-five felt like a milestone. She bought wine, cake, made salad. Then called Mathew.
He answered fast. “Tanya? What’s wrong?”
“Just Tanya. It’s my birthday. Would you… come over? I don’t want to be alone.”
A pause. Then: “I’ll bring Rick.”
He arrived with roses, wine, a huge watermelon. Awkwardness melted. They talked, ate, laughed.
“You think I’m awful,” she said. “Celebrating while Lucy’s gone. But I’m tired of pain. We made peace—she stays quiet, I don’t push her away.”
Mathew looked at her. “I really want to kiss you.”
A month later, Tanya woke early to cook breakfast. Nausea hit. She *knew* that feeling.
She bought a test on her way to work. Waited till evening. Positive.
Rick nosed her hand as she stared at the sticks. “I’m having a baby,” she told him. “Don’t tell your dad yet.”
That night, Mathew caught her humming. “You win the lottery?”
“Better. We’re having a baby. A boy, I think.”
He hugged her tight. “Registry office tomorrow.”
Shame flickered—how could she be this happy? But Lucy’s photo on the wall seemed to smile. *You’ll have a brother. You’re glad, aren’t you?*
