Greg was tying his shoelaces in the hallway, his mood as sour as week-old tea—another row with his wife first thing in the morning. Jane leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes red and puffy from crying. The exhaustion etched into her face made her look older than her 38 years—hardly ancient, but life had taken its toll.
Feeling her gaze, Greg sank onto the hallway stool, elbows on his knees, hands dangling. He stared blankly at the wall, worn out.
“Jane, I can’t do this anymore,” he croaked. “I’m tired—hospitals, treatments, the fridge full of meds, the bathroom cabinet stuffed with pills. It’s not working. Why put us through this?”
“Greg, *please*—one last try. You think it’s easy for me? Hoping every time, hearing a heartbeat, then… nothing. ‘It didn’t take,’ they say, like it’s just bad weather.”
“Jane, let’s stop. Plenty of couples live happily without kids. We could—”
“Greg, I’m *begging* you—” Jane slid down the doorframe, knees buckling.
Greg sprang up, caught her, and pulled her into a tight hug. Neither was young, but they weren’t old either—he was 46, fit, sharp-jawed, with salt-and-pepper hair.
“Fine, fine. I’ll stop by the clinic today,” he muttered, rubbing her back as she trembled. “But calm down—stress won’t help. Maybe we wait six months?” He leaned back, studying her tear-streaked face.
“No. The doctor said now.”
“They *always* say that.” Greg shoved her away, grabbed his leather messenger bag, and marched out. “Same script, same result.”
“Greg!” Jane called after him as he jabbed the lift button.
“I’ll go. *Promise*.”
Jane wiped her eyes, gulped her pills—hormones, vitamins, the usual cocktail—and got ready for her afternoon clinic visit. Tenth round of IVF. She’d met women at the fertility ward who’d tried *twenty* times, carried babies at 46, 48. She was only 38.
Greg kept his word—dropped off his “contribution” before jetting off on another business trip. Jane joked with her friends (and near-strangers in waiting rooms) that her husband only came home to “donate.” The rest of the time, he worked. Ten years like this. He’d clawed his way up—three failed ventures, debts, rented flats. Jane borrowed money from friends, even her mum, endured lectures about her “reckless” husband. But she believed in him.
Now? They were comfortable. A posh London flat, a countryside cottage in the Cotswolds, two luxury cars, holidays abroad twice a year. But Jane hadn’t ticked “mother” off her list. She’d given Greg her youth, her health. Now she just wanted a baby.
She worked as a receptionist at a beauty salon—no career ambitions, just content with her life. Same job for years, knew all the clients.
Another procedure, another wait. Greg called daily from his trip.
“Janey, fancy a weekend in Brighton?” he chirped one evening.
“Brighton? It’s November!”
“Lovely hotels—heated rooftop pools. My deal’s closed; let’s celebrate.”
“I’ve got work.”
“Quit that dead-end job already!”
“I *like* it. Besides, Lily’s off sick.”
“Just the weekend, then. I’ll be back tomorrow—bags in the boot, and off we go!”
They had a blissful two days. Greg bragged about outmanoeuvring rivals, sealing the deal. “No more trips for three months,” he declared, hugging her in their suite.
“I’m so happy,” Jane murmured. “We’ve been through so much.”
“Past is past.” He stroked her fluffy robe. “Everything’s ahead of us. Think it’ll work this time?”
Greg shrugged. A million hopes, a million letdowns.
Back home, refreshed, Jane returned to the clinic, Greg to his company. A week later, he packed for another trip.
“Sorry, love. Last-minute thing.”
Jane packed his suitcase—just how he liked it. She hadn’t seen him off at the airport in years; he preferred his driver.
Three weeks later, he got the news over the phone: another failure. Jane wept; he was almost relieved he wasn’t there. By the time he returned, she was begging to try again.
“How many times did *you* fail before your business took off? You never quit!”
“Jane,” Greg groaned, pacing. “A company isn’t a *child*! Look at you—you’ll need a specialist yourself soon, but not for fertility. *Accept it.*”
“You didn’t stop me when I had those abortions! Back when we had *nothing*.”
“Five! That’s all! And then nothing. Like Nan cursed us.”
“I *believed* in you. You don’t believe in *us*.”
“There *is* no ‘us’! Just you and me!” Greg snapped. “I can’t watch you suffer anymore.”
They fought. Greg stormed out, slept on the sofa. Days of silence. Then, one evening, he came home early, frantically packing.
“You keep the flat, the car—both if you want. The cottage…?” He hesitated, shoving shirts into a case. (Normally, Jane packed for him—colour-coordinated, on hangers.) “It’s half-built. Can you manage it?”
“Greg,” Jane sat on the bed, bewildered. “Another trip?”
He stared out the window. “I’m leaving.”
“How long?”
“For good.”
“Business trips don’t last *forever*,” Jane laughed nervously.
“It’s not work. I… had a fling. She’s pregnant.”
“Young?”
“Yeah.”
“A fling, and *just like that*.” Jane stood, numb.
“Jane, I *wanted* a child—a son. But it’s not happening. Maybe… after the abortions, something—”
“So I’m barren,” she whispered. “Go. Your child needs a father.”
“I’m sorry.” Greg couldn’t look at her. He snapped the case shut and left. The expensive Italian door closed softly—designed for discreet exits.
Jane spiralled. For months, she called Greg; he never answered. The divorce took half a year. He visited twice, tried to talk. She only asked, “Are you a dad yet? Got *everything* you wanted?” He never replied.
She kept the flat, the car. The cottage? Too much—meant for a family. Now, just her. Alone in her glass tower, watching other flats light up at dusk—couples, kids, dogs. The neighbours upstairs screamed weekly; she’d think, *What a waste of breath.*
Months later, she landed in hospital with an infection—miserable, neglected. Her wardmate was a chatty market trader, a whirlwind of gossip.
“Blimey, you look like a dried-up prune!” the woman cackled. “Lost a kid or summat?”
“I’m *empty*,” Jane muttered.
“No womb?”
Jane shook her head.
“Then why the long face? I’ve got no tubes, 18 rounds of IVF—gave up on me bloke, his swimmers were rubbish. Used a donor—*bam*! Twins!” She patted her belly.
Jane turned. “*How*?”
“Donor sperm, love. Easy!”
“But your husband—”
“*What* husband? 23 years of his mum’s apron strings. Last row, he ran back to her. *Pathetic.*”
Jane sat up. “Tell me about the clinic. Costs. Everything.”
Over hospital meals, the woman—Eugenie—dragged Jane back to life with bawdy jokes and advice. For the first time in years, Jane laughed.
A few months later, Jane tried IVF with donor sperm. First go—*success*. Two brief hospital stays, then a perfect little girl—2.8 kg of joy.
At discharge, she barely noticed the tall woman in silk pyjamas—same surname. Just a coincidence.
(The woman was Greg’s new wife, collecting their second son. His life? Not perfect. Missed deals, Maldives trips, a wife who refused to pack his shirts. But he had his sons.)
Jane drowned in motherhood. Eugenie still called, cackling about “eligible blokes.”
“Zingy, I’ve got a divorced 32-year-old at the market—fancies you!”
“*One* child’s enough,” Jane laughed.
But years later, she did meet someone. She’d become a mother, a woman who knew her worth. And that, as Eugenie would say, was *bloody priceless*.
