Emily clutched the test results in her fist, the paper damp with sweat. The corridor of the clinic was packed, bodies pressing against each other.
“Emily Clarke!” the nurse called out.
She stood and walked into the office. The doctor—a tired-eyed woman with a no-nonsense expression—took the folder from her and scanned the pages.
“Sit,” she said flatly. “Everything’s normal with you. Have your husband checked instead.”
Emily froze. William? But he couldn’t be—
***
At home, her mother-in-law, Margaret, was chopping vegetables for Sunday roast, the knife striking the board like a weapon.
“Well, dear, what’s the news?” she asked without looking up.
“I’m fine,” Emily muttered, hanging up her coat.
“Then why—” Margaret finally raised her eyes. Something flickered in them—unease.
“William needs to be tested.”
The knife stilled. Margaret straightened, stiff as a rod.
“What nonsense! My son is perfectly healthy! It’s your doctors who don’t know what they’re talking about. Women had babies just fine without all this fuss back in my day.”
Emily walked past her into the bedroom. Mismatched socks—one black, one navy—lay discarded on the bed. She picked them up mechanically and tossed them into the hamper.
Three years of marriage, and those socks had become a symbol of their life—scattered, never quite pairing.
William came home late.
“What’s with the long face?” he grumbled, collapsing into his armchair.
“We need to talk.”
“About what?”
She handed him the papers. He skimmed them, then tossed them onto the coffee table.
“So?”
“You need to get tested.”
“Why the hell would I?” He sprang up, pacing. “Look at me—fit as a fiddle!”
And he did look healthy—broad-shouldered, thick dark hair. But health wasn’t always skin-deep.
“Please, Will.”
“Enough!” he snapped. “If you don’t want kids, just say so! What’s with all this theatre?”
From the kitchen came the shuffle of slippers. Margaret lurked just beyond the door, breathing loud enough to hear.
“I want children more than anything,” Emily whispered.
“Then why haven’t we got any? Maybe you’re hiding something. Had a few abortions, and now you can’t?”
The blow landed hard. Emily recoiled.
“How could you—”
“How else should I take it? Three years, nothing, and now some quack says *I’m* the problem?” He clenched his fists, voice cracking.
The door flew open. Margaret stormed in like a tank.
“Don’t listen to her, Will! She’s just bored. Too much time on her hands, running to doctors instead of keeping busy.”
Emily looked at William. He turned away, staring out the window.
“Do you really believe I—”
“I don’t know what to believe,” he bit out. “But I know one thing—real men don’t go to doctors.”
Margaret smirked in triumph. “Exactly. Hospitals are no place for a man.”
Something inside Emily snapped—a wire pulled too tight.
“Fine,” she said, voice steady.
The next day, war began. Margaret nitpicked everything—the salt left out, a smudge on the counter, dust on the mantel. Emily stayed silent, jaw set.
“Maybe you shouldn’t even be at home,” Margaret sneered at dinner. “Get a proper job instead of haunting clinics.”
William ate without looking up.
“I *have* a job,” Emily said.
“Three days a week? That’s not work—that’s a hobby.”
“What does that have to do with—”
“Everything! My son’s healthy, and you’re trying to paint him as defective! When there’s no baby, it’s always the woman’s fault!”
Emily stood. Her legs trembled.
“What’s wrong now?” Margaret scoffed. “Run off the moment dinner’s done?”
“I’m tired.”
“Tired of what? Three days’ work isn’t exactly backbreaking!”
William finally looked up. Something like pity flashed in his eyes—but he stayed quiet.
That night, Emily lay listening to his snores. Once, it had comforted her—proof he was there. Now it grated. How had she never seen how stubborn he was?
By morning, she’d packed a bag—just a few dresses, underwear, her toiletries.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Margaret blocked the kitchen doorway, teacup in hand.
“To Gran’s.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
William stepped out of the bathroom, saw the bag.
“Em, what’s this?”
“Exactly what it looks like.”
“You’re serious?”
“What choice do I have? You won’t get tested, your mother blames me—why stay?”
He stepped closer, voice dropping.
“Don’t be daft. Where will you go?”
“To Gran’s. It’s small, but—”
“Small? It’s a shoebox!”
Margaret snorted. “Let her go. Maybe living with that old bat will make her appreciate what she had here.”
William shot her a glare but said nothing.
Emily shouldered her bag and turned to the door.
“Em!” he called.
She looked back. He stood in the hallway, hair still damp from the shower, lost.
“When are you coming home?”
“When you see a doctor.”
The door slammed behind her.
Gran gasped when she saw the bag. “Emily! What’s happened?”
“Fought with William. Can I stay?”
“Of course, love. It’s cramped, but—”
“It’s fine.”
The flat *was* tiny—a bed, a table, two chairs, an ancient telly. But it smelled of cinnamon, and Gran always baked.
“Tell me everything,” she said, putting the kettle on.
Emily did. Gran listened, shaking her head.
“Oh, love… Men and their pride. Admitting weakness is like death to them.”
“So I’m just supposed to wait forever?”
“No. You did right by leaving. Let him stew.”
The first days passed quietly. Emily slept on the fold-out, helped Gran with chores. William called, but she didn’t answer.
Then Gran started complaining of chest pains. The paramedics insisted on hospital.
“Don’t fret, love,” Gran whispered as they wheeled her out. “I’m old—these things happen.”
She improved in hospital. Emily visited daily, bringing homemade meals, chatting.
“How’s William?” Gran asked once.
“Same. Called twice, shouted down the phone.”
“Did you answer?”
“Once. Not the second time. What’s the point?”
“What if he’s been to the doctor?”
“Doubt it.”
In the corridor, visitors milled about. Emily nearly collided with a man in a white coat—young, fair-haired, kind-eyed.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
“No harm done. Visiting someone?”
“My gran. Ward seven.”
“Ah, Mrs. Whitmore!” He smiled. “Lovely lady. Daniel Hartley, cardiologist.”
“Emily.”
“Pleasure. Don’t worry—she’ll be right as rain. Just her age…”
He spoke of treatment, prognosis, but Emily watched his hands—long fingers, neat nails. Steady hands.
“Thank you,” she said.
Next day, he lingered to talk. Then the next. Emily started arriving early, hoping to see him.
“Daniel asked if you were coming today,” Gran said slyly once.
“Did he?”
“Oh yes. ‘How’s your granddaughter?’ Fine lad. Single, too.”
Emily flushed.
“Gran, don’t—”
“Why not? You’re practically free. That William—”
“I’m married.”
“Pfft.”
A week later, Daniel was transferred. On his last day, he stopped her in the corridor.
“I’ll miss you,” he said simply.
“Me too.”
He handed her a card.
“If you ever need anything. Or just want to talk.”
Their fingers brushed.
“Thank you.”
“And… you’re beautiful. And so sad. I hope one day that changes.”
Gran came home stronger, but Emily still worried.
William kept calling. Sometimes she ignored it, sometimes answered. The last time, he yelled that she was “acting like a spoiled child.” She hung up and stopped picking up.
A month later, a woman called.
“Emily? Daniel’s mother. He gave me your number…”
“Is something wrong?”
“No! It’s his birthday tomorrow—he’d love to see you. Could you come?”
Emily hesitated. Gran, eavesdropping, waved excitedly.
“Go, love! When’s the last time you had fun?”
The party was lovely. Daniel introduced her to everyone, attentive but not pushy. Walking her home, he said,
“I want to see you again. May I?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
They started seeing each**Emily smiled down at their son, Theo, cradled in her arms, while Daniel gently squeezed her hand, and for the first time in years, she knew without a doubt she had made the right choice.**.
