Gregory was tying the laces of his shoes in the hallway, his mood foul after the argument with his wife that morning. Zara stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, her eyes red and swollen from crying. The exhaustion and wrinkles on her face were more pronounced, though she was only 38—hardly old.
Feeling her gaze on him, Gregory sat on the ottoman, elbows on his knees, hands hanging limp. He stared blankly at the wall—worn out, defeated.
“Zara, I can’t do this anymore. Do you understand?” he rasped. “I’m tired of hospitals, treatments, medicine crowding the fridge, the bathroom, the bedside table. It’s not working out for us! Why torture yourself—torture me?”
“Greg, please—one last try. Do you think it’s easy for me? Hoping every time, hearing a heartbeat, then cleaning up after those awful words—*it didn’t take, it’s gone*.”
“Zara, we need to stop. Plenty of couples live without kids—they don’t drop dead!”
“Greg, I’m begging you!” Zara slid down the doorframe, as if ready to drop to her knees. Gregory bolted up, caught her by the shoulders, and pulled her into a tight embrace. Neither was young, but they weren’t old either—just worn. At 46, Gregory still looked striking—trim, clean-shaven with a shadow of stubble, thick salt-and-pepper hair.
“Alright, alright. I’ll swing by the clinic today, drop off the sample,” he murmured, stroking her back as she trembled against him. “Stop this—you can’t afford the stress. You need to be strong. Maybe wait another six months?” He leaned back slightly, studying her tear-streaked face.
“It has to be now. The doctor said—”
“They *always* say the same damned thing!” Gregory snapped, shoving her away. He grabbed his leather messenger bag, heading for the door. “Same script, same result.”
“Greg!” Zara called after him as he jabbed the lift button in the corridor.
“I *said* I’ll go!”
Zara dabbed her eyes, took her prescribed meds—vitamins, hormones—then got ready for her errands. The clinic would come after lunch. This was her *tenth* IVF attempt, but she refused to give up. She’d seen women at the fertility clinic, in the wards, who’d tried *twenty times*—who carried babies at 46, 48. And she was only 38.
Gregory kept his promise—dropped by the clinic, then flew out for another business trip that evening. Zara often joked—with friends, even strangers at the gynaecologist’s—that her husband only came home to “donate”, the rest of the time he worked. This had been their life for nearly ten years.
He’d made it big. Zara had been his rock, even when his third venture collapsed, leaving them drowning in debt, stuck in a rented flat. She’d begged loans from friends, family, endured humiliating lectures about her “reckless” Greg—but she *took* the money, handed it to him without a second thought.
They repaid every penny when he finally succeeded. Now they had a spacious flat in central London, were building a country house in Surrey—just fifteen minutes from the city. Fancy cars, holidays abroad twice a year. But Zara had never become a mother. She’d poured her health, her *life*, into Greg. Now she wanted just *one thing*.
She’d worked for years as a receptionist at a beauty salon—no grand ambitions, just her marriage. She still worked there, knew most clients by name, loved the job.
Another round of IVF. More waiting. Greg called constantly from his trip, checking on her.
“Zara, how about Brighton this weekend?” he chirped one evening.
“Brighton? Greg, it’s *November*—what’s there?”
“Lovely hotels, rooftop heated pools! Let’s escape. You *need* it. My deal’s closed—I’ve been stressing.”
“But I’ve got work.”
“Sod your work! I’ve told you—quit!”
“I *like* it. And 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 by Monday. I’ve got meetings too.”
The short break was bliss. Greg glowed with triumph, recounting how he’d outmanoeuvred three rivals in negotiations.
“No more business trips for three months,” he vowed, holding her in their plush hotel suite.
“I’m so happy,” Zara whispered, clinging to him. “We’ve been through *so* much.”
“It’s behind us.” He stroked her fluffy bathrobe. “We’ve got *plenty* to live for. D’you think… this time it’ll work?”
Gregory shrugged. They’d hoped a million times—he *hated* giving her false hope.
Back home refreshed, Zara kept up with clinic visits, work. Greg adored his company—until another trip loomed.
“Sorry, love—I *promised* no more, but it’s urgent.”
She packed his suitcase *just* as he liked. She hadn’t seen him off at Heathrow in years—he preferred his driver.
Three weeks this time. He heard about the latest failed attempt over the phone—her tears, the crushing depression. A relief *not* to be there. Returning, she begged to try again—*not now, wait,* but *don’t stop*.
“How many times did *you* fail at work? We never gave up—you didn’t even *consider* it!”
“Zara—” Greg dragged his hands through his hair, pacing the living room. “You can’t compare a *company* to a *child*! Look at *you*—soon you’ll need a psychiatrist! Face it—we won’t have kids.”
“When I had abortions because ‘it wasn’t the time’—when we had *nothing*—you *begged* me! Now *you’re* giving up?”
“You didn’t have *that* many—stop exaggerating!”
“Five. Then nothing—like Gran ‘cursed’ me. Joke’s on us—now *we’re* the ones who can’t conceive!” she yelled.
“I never *forced* you—you *chose*!”
“Because 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 anymore—”
They fought. Greg stormed out, came home late, slept on the sofa. Days of suffocating silence. Then, returning early, he fumbled through the bedroom, rambling about the flat, the country house.
“The flat’s yours. The car—take both. The house…” He yanked clothes from the wardrobe—*she* always packed, colour-coordinated, shirts on hangers. Now he just *shoved* them in. “It’s yours too, but can you handle it? Renovations’ll take a year, the costs—”
“Greg—” Zara sank onto the bed, bewildered. “Another trip?”
He sat opposite, staring through the floor-to-ceiling window at London’s chaotic skyline.
“I’m leaving.” Flat. Final.
“You should’ve called—I’d have packed properly. How long?”
“Forever.”
“Business trips *aren’t* forever,” she laughed weakly.
“Zara, it’s not work. I… had a fling. A colleague. She’s pregnant.”
“Young?”
“Yeah.” He ducked his head.
“A *fling*—and *she* gets pregnant straight away?” Zara stood, voice breaking.
“Zara, I *wanted* a child—a *son*—just as much! But *we* couldn’t. *You* couldn’t—”
“*How?*”
“Maybe those abortions broke something… *My* fault! I’ll give you *anything*—we built this together. Without *you*—”
“Barren. Useless.” She wiped a tear. “Go. Your child needs a father.”
“Zara, I’m *sorry*—” He couldn’t bear her face. Snatching the suitcase, he left. The expensive Italian door closed softly—designed for moments like this.
Zara spiralled. At first, disbelief—calling Greg, unanswered. Six months of numbness, then divorce. He visited twice, tried to negotiate. She only asked:
“Have you become a father yet? Achieved *everything*?”
He never answered.
The flat, the car—hers. The half-built country house? Too much—meant for a family she’d never have.
Now she drowned in grief. No husband. No child. No family. Just a vast flat with panoramic views of another high-rise—warm yellow lightsZara clutched her daughter’s tiny hand, watching the sun set over the city, and for the first time in years, she smiled without forcing it.
