Greg was tying his shoelaces in the hallway, his mood foul after the morning’s argument with his wife. Liz stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, her eyes red and swollen from crying. The exhaustion and lines on her face stood out starkly—she was only 38, not old by any means.
Feeling her gaze, Greg sank onto the bench, elbows on his knees, hands dangling limp. He stared blankly at the wall in front of him, just as worn down as she was.
“Liz, I can’t do this anymore, you get that?” His voice was hoarse. “I’m tired of the hospitals, the treatments, the fridge full of meds, the bathroom cabinet, the nightstand—it’s everywhere. It’s not working. Why are we putting ourselves through this?”
“Greg, please, one last time,” Liz pleaded, her voice breaking. “You think it’s easy for me? Getting my hopes up, hearing a heartbeat, then having to endure those awful words—’It didn’t take, it’s gone.'”
“Let’s just stop, Liz. Plenty of couples live without kids—they’re fine.”
“Greg, I’m begging you!” She slid down the doorframe, ready to drop to her knees right there.
Greg lunged forward, catching her by the shoulders and pulling her into a tight hug. Neither of them was young, but they weren’t old yet—he was only 46, fit for his age, clean-shaven with a strong jaw and thick, lightly greying hair.
“Alright, alright,” he murmured, stroking her back as she trembled in his arms. “I’ll drop by the clinic today, do my part. But you’ve got to stay strong, Liz. Maybe we should wait, just six months?” He leaned back, studying her tear-streaked face.
“No, it has to be now. The doctor said—”
“They always say that,” Greg snapped, pushing away as he grabbed his leather briefcase. “Same script, same result.”
“Greg!” Liz called after him as he jabbed the lift button in the hallway.
“I’ll go—promise.”
Liz wiped her eyes, took her pills—vitamins, hormones, whatever the doctors prescribed—then got ready for her afternoon clinic visit. This was her tenth round of IVF. She’d met women who’d done twenty and still carried babies at 46, 48. She was only 38.
Greg kept his word—dropped by the clinic before catching his evening flight for another business trip. Liz joked with friends, even strangers at the gynaecologist’s, that her husband only came back to “donate,” otherwise, he was always working. That had been their life for nearly a decade. He’d built his career—failed three times before finally making it, while Liz borrowed money from friends and family, endured humiliating lectures about his recklessness. But they’d paid everything back. Now they had a posh flat in London, a countryside house in the Cotswolds, reliable cars, holidays abroad twice a year. But Liz hadn’t become a mother.
She’d spent years as a receptionist at a beauty salon, content with her simple life, devoted to Greg. Now, all she wanted was a child.
Another round of IVF. More waiting. Greg called constantly from his trip, checking on her.
“Liz, what if we sneak off to Brighton this weekend?” he said one evening, excitement in his voice.
“Brighton? It’s November, Greg.”
“Luxury hotels, rooftop heated pools—come on, let’s escape. My deal went through—I need this.”
“But I’ve got work.”
“Sod work. You should quit.”
“I like my job. Besides, Lily’s off sick—I can’t abandon them.”
“Just the weekend, then. I’ll fly back tomorrow—we’ll go straight from the airport.”
They had a blissful two days. Greg bragged about outmanoeuvring competitors, sealing the deal.
“No more trips for three months,” he promised, holding her on the suite’s plush sofa.
“I’m so happy,” Liz whispered. “After everything we’ve been through…”
“It’s behind us now.” He kissed her forehead. “We’ve got so much to look forward to. D’you think it’ll work this time?”
Greg shrugged. He’d stopped daring to hope.
Back home, Liz returned to the clinic, Greg to his beloved company. A week later, another trip.
“Sorry, love—can’t get out of it.”
She packed his suitcase just how he liked. No airport goodbyes—just driver drop-offs.
This time, he was gone three weeks. Liz called with the news—another failure. Days of tears, depression. Greg was almost relieved he wasn’t there. When he returned, she begged him to try again—not now, but not never.
“How many times did your business fail before it worked?” she challenged.
“Liz,” he groaned, pacing their living room, “that’s not the same! This is your health. Look at you—you’ll end up needing a psychiatrist next. Face it—we’re not having kids.”
“You begged me for abortions back when we had nothing. Now it’s my fault?”
“You didn’t have *that* many!”
“Five! Then nothing. And now—when we *can* have a child—we can’t.”
“I never forced you!”
“I believed in *us*! You don’t!”
“There *is no us*! Just you and me!” Greg snapped. “I can’t watch you suffer anymore.”
They fought. Greg left, slept on the sofa. Days of silence. Then, one evening, he came home early, frantically packing.
“The flat’s yours. The cars. The country house—” He shoved shirts into a suitcase, not caring about colour order. “—but can you handle it? Renovations, finances…”
“Greg,” Liz sat on the bed, confused. “Another trip?”
He glanced out their floor-to-ceiling window at London’s skyline. “I’m leaving. For good.”
“That’s not a business trip.”
“No. I… There’s someone else. A colleague. She’s pregnant.”
“Young?”
“Yeah.”
“So *she* gets pregnant just like that.” Liz stood, numb.
“Liz, I wanted a child too—a son. But it’s not happening for *us*—for *you*…”
“Me?” Her voice cracked.
“Maybe… after those abortions. My fault. I’ll give you whatever you want. We built this together—without you, I’d have nothing.”
“Empty. Barren,” Liz whispered, wiping a tear. “Go. Your child needs a father.”
“Liz, I’m sorry—” He grabbed his suitcase, left without slamming the door.
She sank into grief. Half a year of denial, then divorce proceedings. Greg visited twice, tried to talk. She only asked:
“Are you a father yet? Got everything you wanted?”
He never answered.
The flat, the cars—hers. The half-built country house? Too much for her alone.
She drowned in loneliness. Nights staring at lit windows in the tower across the street, listening to neighbours argue on the landing. Her health worsened. Hospitalised with an infection, she ended up in a shared ward next to a chatty market vendor named Maggie, who held court with other patients.
“Why’ve you got a face like a slapped arse?” Maggie finally asked. “Lost a kid?”
“I’m empty. Got nothing to lose.”
“Uterus gone?”
Liz shook her head.
“Then stop whingeing! I’ve got no tubes, 18 rounds of IVF—finally stuck!” She snapped her fingers. “Got donor sperm. Twins on the way!” She patted her belly.
Liz blinked. “How?”
“Donor, love. *Bam*—pregnant!”
“But your husband—”
“What about him? I’m 44—not waiting on his rubbish swimmers anymore. Ran back to his mum, the idiot. Been married 23 years—enough’s enough!”
Liz sat up. “Tell me everything.”
Maggie grinned. “Lunch first. You look like death—can’t carry a baby like that.”
Their friendship began. Maggie’s crude jokes made Liz laugh for the first time in months. Hope flickered.
A few months later, Liz tried IVF with donor sperm at a London clinic. It worked. First try. A perfect little girl—6 lbs 2 oz of pure joy.
At 40, Liz was finally a mother.
She barely noticed the tall woman in silk pyjamas from the private ward—same surname on their discharge papers. *Must be a coincidence.*
That woman—Greg’s new wife—was there for their second son. His business was struggling now—missed contracts because she demanded holidays in the Maldives. She didn’t pack his shirts for trips. She gave him children—and took much more in return.
Liz lost herself in motherhood. Maggie still called with vulgar jokes and offers:
“Got a bloke for you—32, divorcedHe might be younger, but he’s got a good heart, and honestly, love, you deserve someone who’ll cherish you and that little girl of yours.
