Emma married young, for love. She was twenty-three, he was thirty. James seemed mature, dependable, and steady. He said all the right things, took her to the theatre, treated her to wine, and swore he wanted a family and children.
At first, things were fine. They rented a flat, she quit her miserable job and took care of the home. James didn’t mind. He worked, she cooked. It all seemed proper. But months passed, and Emma didn’t get pregnant. Then years. First came worry, then fear, then blame.
“Probably something you did when you were younger,” her mother-in-law sneered one day. “My son’s healthy—you’re just not a proper woman.”
Emma stayed silent. She cried at night, turning over every possible reason, searching for the culprit in the mirror. She went to doctors, took tests, endured injections, swallowed pills. James only shrugged.
“Don’t want to waste time in those clinics. There’s nothing wrong. You’re just not trying hard enough.”
When, after five years, she suggested IVF, he exploded.
“What, am I supposed to raise a test-tube baby? Breed freaks?”
After that fight, he left. Just like that. Said, “A woman without a child isn’t a family,” and walked out for a younger girl. Six months later, Emma heard the new woman was pregnant. By then, she was in hospital—her last hope gone, her womb removed.
After the surgery, she barely spoke. Didn’t answer her mother’s calls. She thought there was no reason left to live. Everything inside her felt dead.
But her mother came anyway, uninvited. Sat beside her and said,
“You’re not damaged goods. You’re a person. And you’ll be happy. Just not how you expected.”
Emma moved to another city. Started over. Rented a tiny flat, found a job, got a cat. She learned to live without fear, without expectation, without pain. Just to live.
Then came Oliver. Tall, awkward, with kind eyes. He didn’t make grand promises. Just lingered after coffee once, then after dinner, then forever.
When she told him,
“I can’t have children…”
He just shrugged.
“Then we’ll have a house without them. Or with other people’s kids. Or whoever—as long as you’re there.”
A year later, they married. Took out a mortgage, got a dog, and then—a miracle. Even the doctors couldn’t explain it. She got pregnant. At eight months, Oliver cried, gripping her hand during the ultrasound. A daughter. They were having a daughter.
When Emma bumped into James at the supermarket, he was grey, slumped, with a beer gut. He asked,
“So… are you happy?”
She smiled.
“Very.”
He stood there, lost for words. Emma turned and walked away. Because she finally understood—everything that happened had to happen. For her to find herself. For her daughter to be born. For her real life to begin.
