Emma got married young—for love. She was twenty-three, he was thirty. James seemed so grown-up, steady, reliable. He said all the right things, took her to the theatre, treated her to wine, swore he wanted a family and kids.
At first, it was alright. They rented a flat, she quit her soul-crushing job and focused on keeping house. James didn’t mind. He earned, she cooked. On paper—everything as it should be. But months passed, and Emma didn’t get pregnant. Then years. First came worry. Then fear. Then blame.
“Bet you made some mistakes when you were younger,” her mother-in-law tossed out one day. “My son’s health is fine—you’re just not a proper woman.”
Emma stayed quiet. She cried at night, ran through every possible reason in her head, searched the mirror for someone to blame. She went to doctors, took tests, had injections, swallowed pills. James just brushed it off.
“Not fussed about trailing round clinics. We’re fine. You’re just not trying hard enough.”
When, after five years of marriage, she suggested IVF, he snapped.
“What, I’m supposed to make a baby in a test tube? Breed freaks?”
After that row, he left. Just walked out. Said, “A woman without a child isn’t a family.” And he moved in with some younger girl. Six months later, Emma heard his new fling was pregnant. By then, she was in hospital—her womb removed. Last chance, last hope.
After the surgery, she went silent. Didn’t even pick up when her mum called. Thought there was nothing left to live for. Everything inside her felt dead.
But her mum showed up unannounced. Sat beside her. Said,
“You’re not faulty goods. You’re a person. And you’ll be happy. Different, but happy.”
Emma moved to a new town. Started over. Rented a tiny flat, got a job, adopted a cat. Learned to live without fear. Without expectations. Without pain. Just—live.
Then came Oliver. Tall, a bit clumsy, kind-eyed. No grand speeches. Just lingered after coffee one day, then after dinner, then forever.
When she told him,
“I can’t have kids…”
He just shrugged.
“Guess that means a house without kids. Or other people’s kids. Or whoever—long as you’re there.”
A year later, they married. Got a mortgage, adopted a dog, then… a miracle. Doctors couldn’t explain it. But she got pregnant. At the eight-month scan, Oliver cried, clutching her hand. A daughter. They’d have a daughter.
When she bumped into James at the supermarket, he was grey, slumped, with a beer belly. Asked,
“So… you happy?”
She smiled.
“Very.”
He stood there, lost for words. Emma turned and walked. Because she finally knew—everything that happened had to. For her to meet the real her. For her daughter to be born. And for her real life to start.
