Olivia stood in the bathroom, clutching the pregnancy test in her trembling hand. One line. Like last time. And the time before that. She stared, willing a second line to appear—faint, barely there, anything. But nothing changed.
Her throat tightened. She lowered her hand, exhaled slowly, and stepped back into the bedroom. The cycle repeated itself again—false hope, desperate waiting, crushing disappointment. This time, she had been so sure.
That evening, Daniel came home from work. She didn’t even let him take off his coat before the words tumbled out.
“Still not pregnant.”
He pulled her into his arms, and she buried her face against his chest, fighting back tears.
“The doctors said there’s still a chance,” he murmured. “We could try IVF. We’re not giving up.”
“And what if that doesn’t work?” Olivia lifted her gaze to his. “What then?”
Daniel smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“We keep living. Together. Happy.”
But his answer brought no peace. Somewhere deep down, Olivia knew—one day, he’d want to be a father. Truly. And then? Would he leave? Regret tying his life to a woman who couldn’t give him that?
They’d been trying for three years. At first, it was effortless—casual, hopeful. Then came the planning, the counting days, the doctor visits. There had been a minor issue, but it was fixed. All the tests were perfect. Yet here they were.
Every month, the same cycle: hope, waiting, heartbreak. And then there was Daniel’s mother. Margaret.
From the moment they married, Margaret had been waiting for grandchildren. First, it was hints. Then questions. Then accusations.
Daniel had spoken to her, asked her to back off. But nothing ever stopped her.
“Everyone else has two by now, and you haven’t even started?” she’d scoffed. “What kind of family is that?”
Every time she visited, Olivia’s stomach knotted. Because she knew—the conversation would twist back to children. To the “daughter-in-law who must be hiding something.” To the “poor son wasting his best years.”
Margaret never shouted, never lost her composure. But every word was a needle. Slowly, a thought took root in Olivia’s mind: Maybe Daniel *did* deserve someone else. Someone who could give him what she couldn’t. Maybe that would be fair.
One evening, Margaret left in a particularly foul mood. Days later, when Daniel was away on business, the doorbell rang.
“Did he forget something?” Olivia wondered.
But it wasn’t Daniel. It was Margaret. Coat still on, handbag clutched tight, eyes sharp with purpose.
“May I come in?” She didn’t wait for an answer, stepping inside and heading straight for the kitchen.
Olivia moved automatically, putting the kettle on.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Olivia, dear, you’re a lovely girl. Kind. Clever. But you need to let him go.”
Olivia’s fingers spasmed. The teacup nearly slipped.
“What did you say?”
“You already know,” Margaret continued smoothly. “Three years, and nothing. Daniel won’t say it, but I see it—he’s miserable. He deserves a family. A real one. If you love him, do what’s right. Walk away before it’s too late.”
Olivia said nothing. The words twisted inside her like a knife. The doubt she’d tried to silence was now spoken aloud—with such conviction, it almost made sense.
*This is kindness*, she thought bitterly. *Cruelty dressed as love.*
“We’ll figure it out ourselves,” Olivia whispered.
“He won’t leave you. He pities you. But you *know* this isn’t a life. He needs a woman who can give him everything you can’t.”
Then she was gone. Olivia sat alone in the kitchen, hollowed out. She wanted to scream but had no voice. She wanted to call Daniel—but what would she say?
When he returned three days later, she finally broke.
“I think… I should let you go. You deserve happiness, Daniel. You should be a father.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” His hands tightened on her shoulders. “Have you lost your mind?”
“I can’t give you a child. You want this so badly. And I—”
“And *that’s* why you’re throwing me away? I love *you*, Olivia. Not for children. Not for some future. For *you*.”
“But what if I never can?”
“Then I’ll still be here. Always. No conditions.”
She told him everything. The visit. The conversation. The poison in those words.
Daniel went pale. The next morning, he stormed to his mother’s flat.
Neighbours whispered about the shouting for weeks. He told her she was never setting foot in their home again. That she had no right. That if she ever *dared* interfere—
And he meant it. Six months passed before she saw him again. Six months without Olivia. Without the grandchild she’d begged for.
Because miracles *do* happen.
Two months after that horrible night, the test finally showed two lines. The one Olivia had waited years to see.
Maybe it was because she’d let go of the fear. Maybe Daniel’s certainty had melted the dread inside her.
He didn’t rush to tell his mother. Olivia wanted to—but she knew it was too soon. Only when the bump was impossible to hide did they break the news.
Margaret wept. Begged forgiveness. Promised never to meddle again.
Their son was born healthy. And in time, Margaret became a decent grandmother.
But between her and Olivia, there would always be ice.
Some things, you don’t forget. Like someone trying to erase you. To steal your husband. Your hope. Your life.
Some wounds don’t heal.
