*Diary Entry*
I still can’t shake the weight of it all. For days now, exhaustion has clung to me like a shadow, every task feeling twice as heavy. Food turns my stomach. The pregnancy test confirmed what I already suspected—another baby.
Two years ago, I was just out of maternity leave, barely free from nappies and baby vests, and now this. Oliver’s nearly five, and Emily’s just started Year Two. They need me, and soon, I’ll be buried in sleepless nights and nappy changes again. Will they understand? Or will they resent the new sibling?
They say children are a blessing from God. “Where God sends a child, He sends bread to feed them,” or something like that. But times are uncertain—then again, when have they ever been easy? Women raised families during wartime. What do I tell my boss? That I’ll vanish on maternity leave, then be forever calling in sick?
Honestly, how could I even work with three children? We’ll be living on only George’s salary. Benefits might help, but… I’ve been stewing in doubt, putting off telling him. There’s still time to decide.
Just last week, my manager asked if anyone was planning maternity leave. I swore, like the others, that two children—a boy and a girl—were more than enough for me. And now this.
“Am I mad, worrying about work? Family comes first—always.” But the days pass, and I’m still stuck in the same loop, unable to settle on an answer.
“You look pale,” George said one evening after dinner. “I’ve asked you three times what we should get Oliver and Emily for their birthdays, and you’re miles away. What’s wrong?”
So I told him. He was quiet for a long moment before asking, “What do we do?”
Not *you*—**we**. That’s George. Never leaving me to carry the weight alone. I felt ashamed for keeping it from him. The relief was instant, like shrugging off a heavy coat. I spilled every worry.
“Two’s manageable,” he said firmly. “We’ll manage three.”
“But I’ll be on leave. Relying on your wages alone. Who knows when I’ll go back—if I even can.”
“We’ll cope. I’ll pick up extra shifts.” Then, blunt as ever: “Or do you want to terminate?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “You’ll be at work all hours, I’ll be run ragged at home. Life’ll vanish before we know it.”
“Life vanishes whether it’s two kids or three. We’ve got time to think, haven’t we?”
“A little.”
“Then let’s not rush.” He studied me. “Though I think you’ve already decided. Haven’t you?”
“And where will we all fit?” I glanced around our cramped two-bed flat, inherited from George’s nan.
“I’ll talk to my parents. Offer to swap—their place has three bedrooms. Dad suggested it back when we had Emily.”
I didn’t argue, but I knew his mother would.
Predictably, she erupted. “She got pregnant on purpose to take our flat! You bend over backwards for her!”
“It was my idea,” George snapped. “Emma had nothing to do with it.”
“So you’d throw your own parents out in our old age? We’re settled here! At our age, moving’s a nightmare—but of course, you only think of yourselves!” She clutched her chest dramatically.
“Mum, it was just a question. Fine, we’ll figure something else out.”
“Oh, *they’ll* figure it out.” Her voice dripped poison. “Or she could just get rid of it. Two’s plenty these days. Honestly, it’s for the best.”
George left, jaw clenched. I didn’t need to ask how it went.
Some days, I’d make peace with the idea—another tiny face, another pair of hands to hold. Other days, panic set in: nappies, night feeds, the endless juggle. The deadline loomed, and still, I couldn’t decide.
Then came the dream. A little girl—five, maybe—skipped through the flat, humming, swinging a wicker basket like Red Riding Hood. “What’s inside?” I asked. She peered in, then looked up, eyes wide with hurt. The basket was empty.
At first, I took it as a sign—a daughter on the way. But why empty? The dream gnawed at me.
“Did you decide?” George asked one night.
I told him about the dream.
“It’s just a dream. Means we’re having a girl—another helper.”
*God, he’s good,* I thought. *I’ll keep the baby. With George, I can do this.*
Then, at a friend’s birthday party—their house pristine, the hostess glowing—she sighed as our children shrieked. “Don’t hush them. I’d give anything for that sound. If I could, I’d have as many as God sent.”
“IVF?” I ventured.
“We tried,” she said softly. “I’d adopt tomorrow, but my husband still hopes…”
That settled it. The baby stayed.
When George’s mother next barged in, she cut straight to it. “So, you’ve sorted it, then?”
“Too late,” I lied.
“Of course. Two not enough? Couldn’t be bothered with contraception? He’s working himself to the bone, and you—” Her eyes raked over my waist. “Breeding like rabbits on his wages.”
“You had one. Yet here you are, swollen as a football team.”
George stepped in as she spluttered. “She’s right. You insulted her first. This is **our** choice.”
“Fine! Don’t come crying to me!” The door slammed.
As if she’d ever helped.
The decision was made. On Friday, I left work early for the antenatal clinic. Summer was fading, leaves turning gold. I daydreamed of next year—pushing a pram, picnics, the kids playing.
Then came the crash.
The teens blocking the pavement, the e-scooter hurtling behind me—I never saw it. I woke in hospital, George pale beside me.
“We couldn’t save the baby,” the doctor said.
“It’s my fault,” I whispered. “God’s punishing me for doubting.”
George squeezed my hand. “Don’t blame yourself. And those bloody scooters—they’ll kill someone before they’re banned.”
I ached for the child I’d feared and longed for in equal measure. Nights in that hospital bed, I kept seeing the dream—the little girl’s sorrowful stare. The empty basket. I knew what it meant now.
By autumn’s end, I was discharged. The world smelled of damp leaves and woodsmoke. Now, every e-scooter sends me shrinking to the kerb, my head throbbing with guilt and grief.
Funny, isn’t it? We dread what we fear, then mourn what we’ve lost. Maybe the universe heard my hesitation and took the choice away.
Nothing’s ever really an accident.
