A Gift of Fate
Stephen turned up at his mothers house late, later than people normally do, but that was nothing to make Mrs. Godwin blink. That sort of thing happened with her son. Since the divorce, Stephen lived alone, while their boy, Harry, was with his mum.
Harry was waiting for you, you promised youd take him ice skating. Hes just drifted off, so dont wake him. Ill warm up some supper for you, and then you can head off to bed.
Stephen finished his meal and crept into Harrys room, lying beside him in the murky half-light. Sleep wouldn’t come; his mind spun in slow, awkward circles. For some reason, he found himself remembering his first wife, Fiona, the one hed never truly forgotten. After Fiona, there had been two more, but both felt like uneasy copies.
Fiona was always present, lurking at the edges of memory. Theyd grown up together, next-door neighbours from nursery right through to secondary, sharing classrooms, laughter, secrets, and finally, an acceptance letter to the same university. Marriage came almost by default, each always within arms reach of the other. Their parents loved it; everyone had grown used to the two of them.
Such a lovely pair, people gushed, almost like a fairy tale. They lived well, too, in the flat Fiona inherited from her grandmother, the knick-knacks of an older woman still lining the mantel. But shadows grew: Fiona could not get pregnant. Both healthy, everything else just so, yet no babys cry ever disturbed their cats slumber.
A doctor suggested a seaside convalescent home and a course of treatments, but Stephen shook his head.
As if I want you coming back with some strangers child, hed muttered.
Fionas eyes glimmered with tears. You dont trust me?
Her parents suggested adoption. Take in a little one, make the house lively, they said. Stephen refused.
I want my own. Thats it.
Their tenth wedding anniversary turned awkward. Stephen was late, his seat at the head of the table sat stubbornly empty. Friends and family waited, picking at cold sausage rolls and nibbles, spirits draining away with each unanswered phone call, until finally, the guests filtered out into the street, heads down, leaving the feast untouched.
Stephen didnt come home that night. Fiona sat with the clock ticking, her hands trembling. She knew this day was looming; Stephen had turned into someone different of late. He returned in the cold blush of morning and announced, with a kind of grave relief, that hed been with another womana woman with two children, whod promised to bear him a child and then hand it over for them to raise.
How could you? Fiona whispered. Why did you do it without me? I cant forgive this, Stephen. Go. Gounless She choked back a sob. Help me adopt first, please. At least do that.
Stephens eyes flashed. What, so you could give it my surname and then bleed me dry for child support?
Fionas world spun, anchored by friends, family, and colleagues. She wanted a childoh, how she wanted onebut no one would grant an adoption to a single woman. Ten years of waiting, hope, bitter pills, the antiseptic smell of doctors offices, and the thickening hush in a home emptied of laughter. When Stephen left, he did so quietly, like someone late for business.
Sorry, Fi. Im worn out.
Six months later, Fiona learned through the grapevine that Stephen had a son. The world didnt collapse; it merely faded into a bleached, sepia photograph, all contrast sapped.
She moved through life with the mechanical precision of the lonely: work, home, echoes in empty rooms. Until, one rainy evening, she ducked into a tiny café to wait out a shower. There, hunched over a chipped mug, sat Michael, once the life of their crowd, now just a weary man lost in his own drizzle.
Michael? she ventured, and he glanced up, recognition blooming slowly.
Fiona? Blimey, I must look a state.
Cautiously, conversation unravelled the knots inside them.
Rita and I split, he admitted. She always wanted moremoney, holidays. My business went up in smoke, literally. Car garage burned flat. Debts piled up. Rita chucked me out, said she needed a real provider. Parents are gone. Nowhere left.
Youd best come stay at mine, Fiona said, surprising herself with her own voice.
It wasnt pity, but an answer to the question of how to fill the brittle silence. In her still, echoing flat, there was finally someone else. Not for romance, not for rescue; just to stop the air swallowing her whole.
Are you sure? What about Stephen?
She gave a soft laugh, like a stone skipping on water. Stephen left me, remember? I couldnt give him a child. He found someone who would.
Michael looked stunned. Didnt know any of that, Fi. Turns out fates got a twisted sense of humour.
He bunked on the sofa, apologising for the toast he ate, for the hot water he used. Soon, though, he started mending thingsthe leaky tap, the crooked bookshelfand turning out hearty stews. In his company, the silence turned warm instead of sharp.
Bit by bit, they built a life together, Fiona even found him a desk job where she worked. Gradually, their two separate solitudes twined themselves around each other. Then, one spring afternoon, they trudged to the registry office and got married.
Once, while pram-shopping, they bumped into Michaels ex, Rita, who pursed her lips and tossed a barb over her shoulder. Have him for yourself, Fiona. Hope he knocks you up at least.
Fiona smiled back, unbothered. Thanks for the well wishes, Rita.
In Michael, she found a happiness that felt lived-in, not borrowed or wished forarguments over telly programmes, sharing morning coffee in their sunlit kitchen, plans scrawled on scraps of notepaper.
One evening, Michael broached the topic, almost afraid to hope. Fiona, why dont we look into adoptionfrom the care system?
Fiona blinked, lost for words, her face lit by a soft, almost childlike disbelief.
I mean it, love. You look gobsmacked!
Recovering, she nodded, voice trembling: Id love nothing more. Everything inside me aches for it, but I never dared hope youd want the same. Michaelthank you. Ive been dreaming about this for ages.
They gathered paperwork, filled forms, chased down references. Soon, they were visiting foster homes, meeting children. Life transformed, weeks slipped by, until one ordinary afternoon, Fiona went prowling through a pharmacy, returned home with a plastic-wrapped secret. Two blazing pink lines on the test, mocking and miraculous both, as if to say: See, your path was always waiting.
She rushed to Michael, unable to contain herself. Youll never believe itlook! Were having a baby!
Michael stared, grinning and tearing up at once. Youre kidding? This real? Well call the surgery tomorrowjust to be sure.
The doctor confirmed it. They walked home dazed, as though their dreamworld had yawned open at their feet and invited them inside. Fourteen years. Fourteen gritty, silent years undone in a single rush.
Michael became doting, wouldnt let Fiona lift so much as a shopping bag, lavished her with treats and new-smelling baby things.
And then, in time, Eleanor arrivedbright-eyed and robust as a sunrise. Michael wept, holding her at the hospital gates, blurting through thick tears:
Were finally home. The three of us, at last. Shes our treasure, Fiona, our world.
Their house changed: shouting, laughter, milky scents, sleepless nights stitched together by holding hands beneath the lamplight. Bliss wasnt neat, there were arguments, exhausted sighs, times when it all felt too much. But it held firm, as sturdy as an ancient oak in English clay.
One summer afternoon, weaving their way through Hyde Park with Eleanor dozing in her pram, they almost ran smack into Stephen. He seemed shrunk, his eyes dulled, clutching a can of lager. He paused, blinking as if seeing everything for the first time.
Hello, Stephen said at last.
He glanced from Fionas glowing face to Michaels arm draped over her shoulders to the sleeping baby.
Word is, you two are doing all right.
Fiona smiled softly. Were very happy, Stephen. How are you?
He waved vaguely, eyes sliding away. Oh married twice more, neither stuck. Harrys with his mum. I see him now and then. Not much luck, really.
There was only resignation in his voice, as if every disappointment was simply another pebble in his pocket. He looked at Michael, managed a flicker of a grin, then trudged off, just another lonely figure shuffling through the green, sun-dappled English park.
Michael squeezed Fionas shoulder, whispering, Come on, love. Our Eleanor will be awake any minutewe best get home.
Taking hold of the prams handle, Fiona walked on, homeward, not to the dream of happiness, but to its solid, stubborn reality, built from the fragments of all that once went wrong. And that, truly, was their lifeunbreakable and uniquely theirs.
