Barbara clutched the test results in her fist, the paper damp with sweat. The hallway of the clinic was packed, buzzing with anxious whispers.
“Barbara Morrison!” called the nurse.
Barbara stood and stepped into the consulting room. The doctor—a weary-eyed woman with a no-nonsense demeanour—took the file from her and scanned the pages.
“Sit down,” she said briskly. “Everything’s fine with you. Your husband needs to be checked.”
Barbara went cold. *Edward? But surely he—*
***
Back home, her mother-in-law, Margaret, was chopping cabbage for a Sunday roast, wielding the knife like it had personally offended her.
“Well then, love, any news?” she asked without looking up.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Barbara muttered, hanging up her coat.
“Then why—” Margaret finally glanced up, suspicion flickering in her eyes.
“Edward needs to get tested.”
The knife froze mid-chop. Margaret straightened up, rigid as a poker.
“Rubbish! My boy’s fit as a fiddle! It’s these so-called experts who don’t know a thing. Women had babies just fine without all this poking and prodding in my day!”
Barbara walked into the living room. A mismatched pair of socks—one navy, one black—littered the sofa. She picked them up mechanically and tossed them into the laundry basket.
Three years of marriage, and those socks had become a perfect metaphor—never quite matching, never quite right.
Edward came home late.
“What’s with the long face?” he grunted, flopping into his armchair.
“Ed, we need to talk.”
“About what?”
She handed him the papers. He skimmed them and tossed them onto the coffee table.
“And?”
“You need to get checked.”
“Why on earth?” He sprang up, pacing like a caged bear. “I’m perfectly healthy! Just look at me!”
And he *did* look healthy—broad-shouldered, thick dark hair—but health isn’t always skin-deep.
“Ed, please—”
“Enough!” he barked. “If you don’t want kids, just say so! Why drag doctors into it?”
From the kitchen came the unmistakable shuffle of slippers. Margaret was eavesdropping, her breathing loud enough to rival a steam engine.
“I want children more than anything,” Barbara said quietly.
“Then why haven’t we had any? Maybe *you’ve* been hiding something? Had a termination or two and now can’t conceive?”
The blow stung. Barbara flinched.
“How *could* you—”
“How else should I take it? Three years, and nothing! And now some quack says *I’m* the problem—” He trailed off, fists clenched.
The door burst open. Margaret charged in like a bulldozer.
“Eddie, don’t listen to her! It’s all this free time she’s got. Too much leisure, too many doctor visits!”
Barbara looked at Edward. He turned away, staring out the window.
“Ed, do you really think I—”
“I don’t know *what* to think,” he hissed. “But I *do* know real men don’t go running to doctors.”
Margaret nodded triumphantly.
“Quite right, son. Hospitals are no place for a proper bloke.”
Something inside Barbara snapped—like a wire pulled too tight.
“Fine,” she said calmly.
The next day, the war began. Margaret nitpicked everything—the salt cellar, an unwashed pan, dust on the dresser. Barbara bit her tongue.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t be lounging about at all?” Margaret sneered over dinner. “Get a proper job instead of gallivanting to clinics.”
Edward chewed his roast beef in silence.
“I *do* work,” Barbara reminded her.
“Two days a week? That’s not work—it’s a hobby.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Everything! My son’s healthy, and you’re trying to make out he’s not! When there’s no baby, it’s *always* the woman’s fault—always has been!”
Barbara stood, legs shaky.
“Where are you off to?” Margaret scoffed. “Eaten and running?”
“I’m tired,” Barbara murmured.
“Tired? What’ve you got to be tired about? Working two days a week—hardly back-breaking!”
Edward finally looked up, something almost like pity in his eyes. But he said nothing.
That night, Barbara lay awake listening to Edward’s snores. Once, it had comforted her—proof he was near. Now it grated. How had she never noticed how pig-headed he was?
In the morning, she stuffed a few essentials—dresses, underwear, toiletries—into an old gym bag.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” Margaret stood in the kitchen doorway, teacup in hand.
“To Gran’s.”
“For long?”
“Don’t know.”
Edward emerged from the shower, spotted the bag.
“Babs, what’s this?”
“Exactly what it looks like.”
“You’re serious?”
“What else? You refuse to get tested, your mum blames me—why stay?”
He stepped closer, voice low.
“Don’t be daft. Where’ll you go?”
“Gran’s.”
“That shoebox? It’s barely a bedsit!”
“Better cramped than miserable.”
Margaret snorted.
“Good riddance! Let her go. A stint with that old bat’ll make her appreciate what she had here.”
Edward shot her a glare but stayed silent.
Barbara hoisted the bag.
“Babs!” he called as she opened the door.
She turned. He stood there, hair still wet, looking utterly lost.
“When’re you coming back?”
“When you see a doctor.”
The door clicked shut.
Gran gasped when Barbara appeared with her bag.
“Love! What’s happened?”
“Row with Edward. Can I stay?”
“’Course, pet. Though it’s a squeeze…”
“Doesn’t matter, Gran.”
The flat *was* tiny—a bed, a table, two chairs, an ancient telly. But it was clean. And it smelled of cinnamon—Gran loved to bake.
“Tell me everything,” Gran said, putting the kettle on.
Barbara spilled it all. Gran listened, shaking her head.
“Ah, love… Men and their pride. Admitting something’s wrong feels like defeat.”
“So I’m just meant to wait till he *decides* to see a doctor?”
“No. You did right leaving. Let him stew.”
The first days passed quietly. Barbara settled onto the fold-out bed, helped Gran with chores. Edward called, but she ignored it.
Then Gran started complaining of chest pains. The paramedic insisted on hospital.
“Don’t fret, pet,” Gran whispered as they wheeled her out. “Old bones, nothing more.”
She improved in hospital. Barbara visited daily, bringing homemade meals, sharing gossip.
“How’s Edward?” Gran asked once.
“Same. Rang twice, shouted down the phone.”
“You answered?”
“First time. Second, no. What’s the point?”
“What if he’s been to the doctor?”
“Doubt it.”
In the corridor, Barbara nearly collided with a doctor—tall, fair-haired, kind-eyed.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
“No harm done. Visiting?”
“My gran. Ward seven.”
“Ah, Eleanor!” He smiled. “Marvellous lady. Dr. Daniel Whitmore, cardiology.”
“Barbara.”
“Pleasure. Don’t worry—your gran’s tough as nails. Just her age…”
He spoke about treatment, recovery, and Barbara found herself studying his hands—steady, capable.
“Thank you,” she said.
The next day, he lingered to chat. And the next. Barbara started arriving early, hoping to catch him.
“Dr. Whitmore asked if you were coming today,” Gran said slyly.
“Did he?”
“Oh yes. ‘How’s your granddaughter?’ Lovely lad. Single, too.”
Barbara flushed.
“Gran, really—”
“Why not? You’re practically free. That Edward—”
“I’m *married*.”
“Pah!”
A week later, Daniel was transferred. On his last day, he stopped her in the hall.
“I’ll miss our talks,” he said simply.
“Me too,” she admitted.
He handed her a card.
“If you ever need anything. Or just fancy a chat.”
Their fingers brushed.
“Thank you.”
“And…” He hesitated. “You’re lovely. And so sad. I hope that changes someday.”
Gran came home, stronger but frail. Barbara stayed close, wary of leaving her.
Edward kept calling. Sometimes she answered; sometimes she didn’t. Last time, he’d snarled that she was “acting like a spoiled brat.” She’d hung up and stopped picking up.
Then came the call from an unknown number.
“Barbara? Daniel’s mother. He gave me your number—”
She smiled down at her sleeping son in the pram, knowing that sometimes the greatest happiness comes from having the courage to walk away from what was never meant to be.
