**Diary Entry**
Gregory was tying his shoelaces in the hallway, his mood foul after the argument with his wife that morning. Susan stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes red and swollen from crying. The exhaustion etched deeper lines into her face, though she was only 38—hardly old.
Feeling her gaze, Gregory sat on the ottoman, elbows on his knees, hands dangling. He stared blankly at the wall, just as worn out.
“Susan, I can’t do this anymore,” he said hoarsely. “I’m tired of the hospitals, the treatments, the meds in the fridge, the bathroom, the bedside table. It’s not working! Why put us both through this?”
“Greg, please, one last time. You think it’s easy for me? Hoping every time, hearing a heartbeat, then cleaning myself up after those awful words: *it’s not viable, didn’t take*…”
“Susan, let’s stop. Thousands of couples live without kids and manage just fine.”
“Greg, I’m begging you!” Susan slid down the doorframe, ready to drop to her knees right there.
Gregory sprang up, catching her shoulders, lifting her into a tight embrace. They weren’t young, but neither were they old—he was 46, fit for his age, with a sharp jawline, close-shaven cheeks, and thick, greying hair.
“Alright, alright. I’ll stop by the clinic today, leave a sample,” he murmured, stroking her back as she trembled. “But you can’t keep this up. Maybe we should wait, six months at least?” He pulled back slightly, studying her tear-streaked face.
“No, it has to be now. The doctor said—”
“They always say that,” Gregory snapped, shoving her away as he grabbed his leather briefcase. “Same story, same result.”
“Greg!” Susan called after him as he jabbed the lift button.
“I’ll go. I promise.”
Susan wiped her eyes, took her prescribed pills—hormones, vitamins—then got ready for her afternoon clinic visit. This was her tenth IVF attempt. She’d seen women in their late forties at the fertility clinic who’d tried twenty times and succeeded. At 38, she wasn’t giving up.
Gregory kept his word, stopped by the clinic, then flew out for another business trip that evening. Susan joked with friends—and even strangers at the gynaecologist’s—that her husband only came home to “donate,” spending the rest of his time working. This had been their life for a decade. He’d made something of himself, with Susan as his rock, even when he failed three times and they were drowning in debt, living in a rented flat. She’d borrowed money from friends, her mother, endured humiliating lectures about her “reckless” husband. But she’d never stopped believing in him.
They paid it all back when he finally succeeded. Now they had a spacious central London flat, a countryside house being built in the Cotswolds, reliable cars, holidays abroad twice a year. But Susan hadn’t become a mother. She’d given her health, her life, to Gregory. Now, all she wanted was a child.
She’d worked for years as a salon receptionist, content with her modest role, living for her husband. She still worked there, knew the regulars by name, enjoyed the routine.
Another round of IVF. More waiting. Gregory called constantly from his trip, checking on her.
“Susan, how about a weekend in Brighton?” he asked cheerfully one evening.
“Brighton? It’s November, Greg. What’s there to do?”
“Luxury hotels, rooftop heated pools. Let’s escape. You need a break—I just closed a deal. Celebrating.”
“But I’ve got work.”
“Forget work! I’ve told you—quit.”
“I like it. Lily’s off sick, I can’t just—”
“Just the weekend! I’ll fly back tomorrow, we’ll go. You’ll be back by Monday.”
The short getaway was perfect. Gregory thrilled over outmanoeuvring three competitors. “No more trips for three months,” he promised, holding her on their suite’s plush sofa.
“I’m so happy,” Susan whispered. “We’ve been through so much.”
“It’s behind us,” he said, fingers tracing her fluffy robe. “We’ve got everything to look forward to. Do you think… this time it’ll work?”
Gregory shrugged. A million hopes, a million failures. He couldn’t bear to see her shattered again.
They returned refreshed. Susan had her clinic check-up; Gregory buried himself in work. A week later, another trip.
“Sorry, I know I promised, but I have to fly out.”
She packed his suitcase just how he liked it. She hadn’t seen him off at the airport in years—he preferred his driver.
This trip lasted three weeks. He learned about the latest failed attempt over the phone. The tears, the depression—part of him was relieved he wasn’t there. When he returned, Susan begged to try again. Not now, but soon.
“How many times did your business fail before it took off? You never gave up.”
“Susan,” Gregory groaned, pacing their living room, “you can’t compare a company to a child! It’s your health. Look at yourself. Next, you’ll need a psychiatrist. Face it—we won’t have children.”
“When I had those abortions because ‘it wasn’t the right time,’ you didn’t stop me. You begged me. Now you’re giving up?”
“You didn’t have *that* many. Don’t exaggerate.”
“Five! Then nothing. Like my nan’s curse. I was relieved then, but look at us now—we can’t even *have* children!” Susan shouted.
“I never forced you!”
“I believed in you. But you don’t believe in *us*.”
“There *is* no ‘us.’ There’s you, and there’s me!” Gregory snapped. “I can’t watch you destroy yourself anymore.”
They fought. Gregory left, came back late, slept on the sofa. Days of silence followed. Then, returning early one evening, he frantically packed his things, rambling about the flat, the country house.
“You keep the flat. The cars, both if you want. The house…” He hesitated, shoving shirts into a suitcase—normally *her* job, arranging them by colour. “It’ll need another year of work. Can you handle that?”
“Greg,” Susan sat on the bed, confused. “Another trip?”
He stared out the window at the London skyline. “I’m leaving.”
“Call next time. I’d have packed for you. How long?”
“For good.”
“That’s not a business trip,” Susan said faintly.
“It’s not work. I had… a fling. With someone from the office. She’s pregnant.”
“Young?”
“Yes.”
“A fling, and just like that, she’s pregnant,” Susan said bitterly, standing.
“Susan, I wanted a child—a son—just as much as you. But it’s not happening. *You* can’t—”
“How?” she whispered through tears.
“Maybe it’s from… the abortions. My fault. I’ll leave you whatever you want. We built this together. Without you—”
“Empty. Barren,” Susan muttered, wiping her cheek. “Go. Your child needs a father.”
“Susan, I’m sorry.” Gregory couldn’t look at her. He snapped the suitcase shut and left. The expensive Italian door closed softly, designed for moments like this.
Susan spiralled. For months, she couldn’t accept it, calling Gregory out of habit. He never answered. Half a year of numbness, then divorce proceedings. He visited twice, trying to negotiate. She only asked one question:
“Are you a father now? Have you *finally* got everything?”
He never answered.
He gave her the flat, the cars. The country house stayed his—built for a family they’d never have.
Alone in her cavernous flat, Susan watched the yellow glow of neighbouring windows, the couples arguing upstairs, the neighbours with kids and a Labrador in the lift. Such a waste of time, all that shouting.
Months later, an infection landed her in hospital, sharing a ward with a loudmarket trader who held court with other patients. When the others were discharged, the woman finally turned to Susan.
“What’s with the sour face? Lost a kid?”
“I’m empty. Nothing to lose.”
“Had your womb out?”
Susan shook her head.
“Then how’re you empty? I’ve no tubes, 18 IVFs—gave up on my bloke, his swimmers were rubbish. Used a donor. Bam! Twins!” She patted her belly.
“How?” Susan turned.
“Donor sperm. Easy. Clinic near King’s Cross.”
“Your husband…?”
“Husband? I’m 44, love. Not waiting on *him*.”
Susan sat up. “Tell me more. The costs, the clinic—”
“EatAfter leaving the hospital, Susan booked an appointment at the clinic, her hands trembling with a mixture of fear and hope as she dialed the number.
