Eleanor clutched the test results in her fist, the paper damp with sweat. The waiting room of the clinic was packed, the hum of whispered conversations filling the air.
“Eleanor Whitmore!” a nurse called out.
She stood, stepping into the doctor’s office. The physician—a weary-eyed woman with a no-nonsense expression—took the file from her hands, scanning the pages with clinical detachment.
“Sit down,” she said flatly. “Everything’s normal. Your husband needs to be checked.”
A chill ran through Eleanor. *James? But he couldn’t possibly…*
***
At home, her mother-in-law was chopping onions for a roast dinner, the knife slamming into the board like a butcher’s cleaver.
“So, love, what’s the news?” Margot asked without looking up.
“I’m fine,” Eleanor murmured, hanging her coat.
“Then why—” Margot finally lifted her head, alarm flashing in her eyes.
“James needs to get checked.”
The knife stilled. Her mother-in-law straightened, rigid as a poker.
“Rubbish! My son’s perfectly healthy! It’s those quacks who don’t know what they’re talking about. Women used to have babies just fine without all these tests.”
Eleanor walked to the living room. A mismatched pair of socks—one navy, one black—littered the sofa. She picked them up mechanically, tossing them into the laundry basket.
Three years of marriage, and those socks had become a symbol of their life—disjointed, never quite matching.
James came home late.
“Why the long face?” he grumbled, slumping into his armchair.
“We need to talk.”
“About what?”
She handed him the papers. His eyes flicked over them before he tossed them aside.
“And?”
“You need to get checked.”
“The hell for?” He shot up, pacing. “I’m fit as a fiddle! Look at me!”
And he did look healthy—broad-shouldered, thick dark hair. But health wasn’t always skin-deep.
“James, please—”
“Enough!” he barked. “If you don’t want kids, just say so! Why this song and dance with doctors?”
From the kitchen came the shuffle of slippers. Margot was listening, her breathing loud enough to hear.
“I want children more than anything,” Eleanor said quietly.
“Then where are they? Maybe you’re hiding something. Had a termination, now you can’t conceive?”
The blow stung. She recoiled.
“How could you—”
“How else? Three years, nothing to show! And now some doctor says it’s *me*?” He clenched his fists.
The door flew open. Margot stormed in like a battering ram.
“Don’t listen to her, Jamie! She’s got too much time on her hands. Less lazing about, more work—that’d sort her out.”
Eleanor looked at her husband. He turned to the window.
“You really think I—”
“I don’t know what to think,” he bit out. “But one thing’s certain—real men don’t run to doctors.”
Margot nodded triumphantly. “He’s right. Hospitals are no place for a proper man.”
Something inside Eleanor snapped—like a wire pulled too tight.
“Fine,” she said evenly.
The next day, war began. Margot picked at everything—salt left out, dishes half-washed, dust on the dresser. Eleanor endured, jaw clenched.
“Maybe you shouldn’t even be at home,” Margot sneered over dinner. “Get a proper job instead of gallivanting to clinics.”
James chewed his steak, silent.
“I *do* work,” Eleanor reminded her.
“Two days a week? That’s a hobby, not a job.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Everything! My boy’s healthy, but you’re determined to make him out as weak! When there’s no children, it’s always the woman’s fault—always has been!”
Eleanor stood. Her legs felt unsteady.
“What’s wrong with you?” Margot scoffed. “Eat and run?”
“I’m tired.”
“Tired? From what? Two days’ work is hardly breaking your back!”
James finally looked up. Something like pity flickered in his eyes. But he said nothing.
That night, Eleanor lay listening to his snoring. Once, it had comforted her—proof he was near. Now it grated. How had she never noticed how stubborn he was?
By morning, she’d packed an old gym bag—just a few dresses, underwear, a washbag.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Margot stood in the kitchen doorway, teacup in hand.
“To Gran’s.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
James emerged from the bathroom, spotting the bag.
“Ellie, what’s this?”
“What it looks like.”
“You’re serious?”
“What choice do I have? You won’t get checked; your mother blames me. Why stay?”
He stepped closer, voice low. “Don’t be daft. Where will you go?”
“Gran’s.”
“That shoebox? It’s barely two rooms!”
“Better cramped than miserable.”
Margot snorted. “Good riddance! Let her stew with the old woman. She’ll see how good she had it here.”
James shot her a glare but said nothing.
Eleanor slung the bag over her shoulder, headed for the door.
“Ellie!” he called.
She turned. He stood in the hallway, damp from the shower, bewildered.
“When will you be back?”
“When you see a doctor.”
The door clicked shut.
Gran gasped when she saw Eleanor on her doorstep with the bag.
“Love! What’s happened?”
“Had a row with James. Can I stay awhile?”
“’Course, duck. But it’s cramped here…”
“It’s fine.”
The flat *was* tiny—a bed, a table, two chairs, an ancient telly. But it was clean, and smelled of cinnamon—Gran loved to bake.
“Tell me what’s happened,” Gran said, putting the kettle on.
Eleanor poured it all out. Gran listened, grey head shaking.
“Oh, love… Men are proud creatures. Admitting something’s wrong cuts deeper than a knife.”
“So I just wait forever for him to grow up?”
“No. You did right leaving. Let him stew.”
The first days passed quietly. Eleanor took the fold-out bed, helped Gran with chores. James called, but she didn’t answer.
Then Gran started complaining of chest pains. The paramedics insisted on hospital.
“Don’t fret, duck,” Gran whispered as they wheeled her out. “I’m old. These things happen.”
She improved in hospital. Eleanor visited daily, bringing homemade soup, chatting.
“How’s James?” Gran asked once.
“Same. Shouted down the phone last time.”
“You answered?”
“First time, yes. Second, no. What’s the point?”
“What if he’s seen a doctor?”
“Doubt it.”
In the corridor, visitors milled about. Eleanor nearly collided with a man in a white coat—young, fair-haired, kind-eyed.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
“No harm done. Visiting someone?”
“My gran, room seven.”
“Ah, Mabel Whitmore!” He smiled. “Lovely lady. Dr. Daniel Hartley, cardiology.”
“Eleanor.”
“Pleasure. Don’t worry—your gran’s tough. Just age catching up.”
He spoke softly about treatment, prognosis. Eleanor found herself watching his hands—long fingers, neat nails. Steady hands.
“Thank you,” she said.
Next day, he lingered to chat. And the next. She started arriving early, hoping to see him.
“Love, that doctor keeps asking if you’re coming,” Gran said with a sly smile.
“Asking?”
“Oh yes! ‘How’s your granddaughter?’ Nice lad, that. Single, too.”
Eleanor flushed. “Gran!”
“Well? You’re practically free. That James of yours—”
“I’m married.”
“Pah!”
A week later, Daniel was transferred. On his last day, he stopped her in the corridor.
“I’ll miss our talks,” 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 as she took it.
“Thank you.”
“And… you’re beautiful. And so sad. I hope one day that changes.”
Gran was discharged. She recovered, but Eleanor still feared leaving her alone.
James kept calling. Sometimes she ignored it; sometimes she answered. Last time, he’d snarled that she was “acting like a spoilt brat.” She’d hung up and stopped picking up.
A month later, an unfamiliar woman rang.
“Eleanor? Daniel’s mother. He gave me your number—”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, no! It’sThe phone slipped from her fingers as she realized—she had spent so long waiting for James to change that she hadn’t noticed how much she already had.
