Gregory was tying his shoelaces in the hallway, his mood foul after the morning’s argument with his wife. Diane leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her eyes red and swollen from crying. The exhaustion and wrinkles on her face seemed more pronounced, though she was only 38—hardly old.
Feeling her gaze, Gregory sat on the stool, elbows on his knees, hands dangling. He stared blankly at the wall, just as drained.
“Diane, I can’t do this anymore, understand?” he rasped. “I’m tired of hospitals, treatments, medicine bottles in the fridge, the bathroom, the nightstand. It’s not working! Why put us both through this?”
“Greg, please, one last time. You think it’s easy for me to hope, to hear a heartbeat, only to be crushed when they say it didn’t take?”
“Let’s stop, Di. Thousands of couples live without kids and survive just fine.”
“Greg, I’m begging you!” Diane slid down the doorframe, ready to drop to her knees.
Gregory jumped up, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her into a tight embrace. Neither was young, but they weren’t old—he was 46, fit, clean-shaven with a strong jaw and salt-and-pepper hair.
“Alright, alright. I’ll stop by the clinic today, drop off the sample,” he murmured, stroking her back as she trembled in his arms. “Stop this—you can’t afford to stress. Maybe we should wait, even just six months?” He leaned back, studying her tear-streaked face.
“No, it has to be now. The doctor said—”
“They always say that,” Gregory snapped, shoving her away. He grabbed his leather briefcase and headed out. “Same story, same result.”
“Greg!” Diane called after him as he pressed the lift button.
“I’ll go, I promise.”
Diane wiped her tears, took her prescribed meds—vitamins, hormones—then got ready for her afternoon clinic visit. This was her tenth IVF attempt. She’d seen women at the fertility centre who’d tried twenty times, carried babies at 46, 48. She was only 38.
Gregory kept his promise, stopped by the clinic, then flew out for another business trip that evening. Over the years, Diane had joked—to friends, to strangers in waiting rooms—that her husband only came home to “drop off the sample,” spending the rest of his time working. This had been their life for a decade. He’d built a successful career; she’d been his unwavering support, even when he failed three times, leaving them in debt, renting a flat. She’d borrowed money, endured humiliating lectures about her reckless husband, but she never gave up on him.
They repaid every penny. Now, they owned a luxury flat in central London, were building a countryside home in the Cotswolds, drove reliable cars, and holidayed abroad twice a year. But Diane hadn’t become a mother. She’d devoted herself to Greg, and now, all she wanted was a child.
She’d worked years as a receptionist at a high-end salon, never ambitious, always living for her family. She still worked there, knew clients by name, loved the job.
Another round of IVF. More waiting. Gregory called daily from his trips, checking on her.
“Di, how about a weekend in Brighton?” he asked brightly one evening.
“Brighton? It’s November, Greg. What’s there?”
“Luxury hotels, rooftop heated pools. Let’s get away—you need a break. My deal went through. I’ve been a wreck.”
“But I’ve got work.”
“Sod work, I’ve told you—quit.”
“I like it. Lily’s off sick; I can’t leave long.”
“Just the weekend! I land tomorrow—bags in the boot, and we’re off. You’ll be back Monday.”
The mini-break was perfect. Greg revelled in his triumph, recounting how he’d outmanoeuvred three competitors.
“No more trips for three months,” he vowed, holding Diane in their suite.
“I’m so happy,” she whispered. “We’ve been through so much.”
“It’s behind us,” he said, smoothing her robe. “We’ve got everything to look forward to. Think it’ll work this time?”
Greg shrugged. He’d stopped hoping—for himself or her.
They returned refreshed, in love. Diane had her clinic visits; Greg had his beloved company. A week later, another trip.
“Sorry, I promised, but I’ve got to fly.”
She packed his suitcase, just how he liked. She hadn’t seen him off at Heathrow in years—he preferred his driver.
This trip lasted three weeks. He learned about the latest failed attempt over the phone—tears, depression. Part of him was relieved he wasn’t home. When he returned, Diane begged to try again.
“You never quit after failures at work!”
“Diane,” he groaned, pacing. “How can you compare a company to a child? It’s your health—look at yourself. Soon, you’ll need a psychiatrist. Face it—we won’t have kids.”
“I had abortions because the timing was wrong. You begged me then. Now you’re giving up?”
“You didn’t have that many; don’t exaggerate.”
“Five! Then nothing. Now it’s our time, and we can’t!”
“I never forced you!”
“I believed in you. You don’t believe in us.”
“There is no ‘us.’ There’s you and me. I can’t watch you suffer.”
They fought. Greg left, came back late, slept on the sofa. Days of silence passed. Then, returning early one day, he packed frantically, rambling about the flat, the country house.
“You keep the flat, the car—both if you want. The house…” He shoved shirts in haphazardly, though he usually demanded colour coordination. “It’s a year of renovations. The costs…”
“Greg,” Diane sat on the bed, confused. “Another trip?”
“I’m leaving,” he said flatly, staring out at London’s skyline.
“For good?”
“There was someone. A colleague. She’s pregnant.”
“Young?”
“Yes.”
“A fling, and she got pregnant straight away,” Diane said bitterly.
“Di, I wanted a child—a son—just as much. But it’s not happening for us. Maybe… those abortions messed things up. My fault. Take whatever you want—we built it together.”
“Empty, barren woman,” she muttered, wiping a tear. “Go. The baby needs a father.”
“Di, I’m sorry.” He couldn’t look at her. The expensive Italian door closed softly behind him.
Diane spiralled. For months, she called; he didn’t answer. The divorce was final in six months. He visited twice, trying to talk. She only asked:
“Are you a father now? Achieved everything?”
He never answered.
He left her the flat, the car, but kept the half-built country house—meant for children, useless to her now.
Alone in her high-rise flat, Diane watched neighbouring windows—warm lights, quarrels, families. One couple upstairs fought weekly, their shouts echoing. Fools, wasting time.
Months later, she was hospitalised, broken, no longer caring for herself. Her ward mate was a chatty market trader, loud and brash.
“Why the long face? Lose a kid?”
“I’m barren. Nothing to lose,” Diane muttered.
“Uterus gone?”
Diane shook her head.
“Then quit moping! I’ve got no tubes, eighteen failed IVFs—then bam!” She snapped her fingers. “Got donor sperm. Twins on the way!”
“What?” Diane turned.
“My bloke’s swimmers were rubbish. Used a donor—worked first try!”
“And your husband?”
“Left him! Forty-four—not waiting around. Ran back to his mum. Twenty-three years of that? Nah.”
Diane sat up. “Tell me more.”
They became friends. The woman—Gina—dragged Diane back to life with crude jokes. For the first time in months, Diane laughed.
Months later, Diane tried IVF again—with donor sperm. It worked. First try. A perfect baby girl, 6 lbs 2 oz of pure joy.
At forty, she was finally a mother.
Leaving the hospital, she barely noticed the tall woman in silk pyjamas—same surname on her discharge papers. Must be a coincidence.
That woman was delivering her second son. Her husband? Diane’s ex.
Greg had his young wife, two sons—but business was shaky. Big contracts lost because she needed Maldives trips before birth. She didn’t pack his shirts for trips. She gave him the family he wanted but demanded more.
Diane drowned in motherhood.
Gina still called, vulgar as ever.
“You’re a catch now! Loads of blokes would line up. Fancy a 32-year-old divorcee?”
“No thanks, Gina. One kid’s enough.”
Eventually, Diane met someone—three years after her daughter’sShe finally realized that happiness had come not from what she lost, but from what she had chosen to keep.
