**An Honest Conversation**
I met Evelyn at a Spanish class. She was quiet, almost detached, with large grey eyes that seemed to hold entire stories inside them. Around her, I felt strong, as if my presence could steady her.
She had a five-year-old son, Oliver, and she was raising him alone. About the boys father and her past marriage, she said littlejust murmured something about «not seeing eye to eye» and how the first years after the divorce had nearly broken her.
It didnt scare me. On the contrary. The way she looked at Oliverthat fierce, almost painful tenderness, that readiness to shield him from the worldmade me want to be their fortress, somewhere they could finally breathe. Besides, I wanted children of my own.
We married a year and a half later. Id rented a cottage in the woods, and on the second floor, under the eaves, I proposed. She laughed and cried at once, while Oliver clapped, not quite understanding but caught up in the joy.
That night, staring at the stars through the attic window, I finally said what Id dreamed of:
«Wouldnt it be lovely if Oliver had a little brother or sister? I really want that.»
Evelyn didnt answer. Just pressed closer, burying her face in my chest. I thought she was moved. That her silence meant yes.
We began «trying.» I read up on pregnancy planning, bought her vitamins, enthusiastically discussed how wed convert the spare room into a nursery. She nodded and smiled, but there was something stiff in it. I blamed exhaustion, or nerves.
Everything fell apart on an ordinary Tuesday. I was searching the bathroom for spare toothpaste when I saw ita blister pack poking out from her cosmetics case. I googled the name on my phone. Contraceptives.
At first, I refused to believe it. A misunderstanding, maybeold pills shed forgotten to throw out. But the expiry date was fine. And several were missing.
It was like a blow to the head. I stepped out, frozen in the doorway. Evelyn sat at the kitchen table, checking Olivers homework.
«Evelyn?» My voice was too loud. «Whats this?»
I held out the packet. She looked up, and everything in her facefear, panic, shamegave me the answer, solid as concrete.
«You youre taking these now?» I kept my tone even, already knowing.
She nodded silently, unable to meet my eyes. Her lashes trembled; she was fighting tears. Oliver, startled by our voices, went still, glancing between us.
«Why?» One word, heavy with betrayal.
«You wouldnt understand,» she whispered, tears spilling.
«Try me.»
We moved to the living room, sending Oliver to his room. Evelyn hunched over, rubbing her hands together.
«I dont want another baby, James. I dont.»
«But why?» My voice cracked. «You knew how much I wanted this! We talked about it! You couldve just said no! Why lie? Why the act with the vitamins, the nursery plans?»
«I didnt lie!» She finally looked at me. «I just didnt argue.»
«Thats worse!» I stood, pacing. «I believed it! I was happy! And you stayed silent, taking pills? Why, Evelyn? Think Id love my own child more than Oliver? I already love him like hes mine!»
«Its not about Oliver!» Her cry was pure despair. «Its me! I wont be left alone with a child again. Wont be trappedno money, no voice, just nappies and dinner on the table. I barely survived last time, James! Oliver and I lived on pasta so I could afford fruit for him! I cant do it again. Even with you. Im scared.»
She fell silent, hollowed out. And I stood there, her words echoing. Then, suddenly, it all made sense. Her thriftiness, her fear of arguments, her need for her own salarynot quirks. Scars.
I sat across from her. The anger drained away.
«Evelyn,» I said softly. «Im not him. Not your ex.»
«I know,» she wiped her face. «But fear isnt logical. It just is.»
The next evening, I placed a debit card on the table.
«Your own account. Half our savings, every month. Your money. To spend, save, burn. So you know its there. Always.»
She stared at it, stunned.
«Why?» she asked, just as I had.
«So youre not afraid. So you stay because you want to, not because youve nowhere else.»
She took the card, clutched it, and noddeda tiny, almost invisible nod. But it meant more than any vow. That night, we found something fragile. But Id underestimated her fear.
The next evening, the flat was empty. A note on the kitchen table, in her neat handwriting:
*James, I need time. Cant think here. Weve gone to Sophies. Dont callIm not ready. Sorry.*
Rage came first. Running again! Silence again! I rangphone off. Sent messagesunread.
Then I called Sophie, Evelyns childhood friend.
«Sophie, can I speak to her?» I forced calm.
«She cant, James.» Her voice was stiff.
«Dont do this. Put her on!»
«Shes not ready. And I get it. Youve no idea how she is.»
Anger flared. «And how am *I*? We sorted it yesterday! I gave her the card so she wouldnt be scared!»
«The cards good,» Sophie sighed. «But its a plaster on a bullet wound. You never listened. Just pushed your dreams. And yesterdaythe way you looked at her? She cried all night. Thinks you hate her now.»
«I dont hate her! I just» I stopped. Id been furious, betrayed. But hate? No.
«Give her time,» Sophie said gently. «She didnt run from you. She ran from her own panic. Let her breathe.»
I agreed. A day passed. Then another. Silence gnawed at me. On the third day, I texted Sophienot Evelyn.
*Tell her Im not angry. Just need to know theyre safe. Ill wait.*
Sophie replied: *Olivers finethinks your Wi-Fis down. Evelyn its hard. But Ill tell her.*
An hour later, a message from Evelyn. Two words:
*Im okay. Waiting.*
And a photoOliver building Lego. That tiny word*waiting*was my lifeline. Not *leave me alone*. *Waiting*. The door wasnt shut forever.
Sophie was right. Time wasnt for me to cool offI already had. It was for her panic, that raw terror of helplessness, to fade. To believe she could step through that door again.
She called two weeks later:
«James, I miss you. I want to come home. And Im ready to talk.»
«Waiting!» I grinned. «Ill order pizza.»
We didnt talk about a baby that night. Or the next month. But we learned to trust again. Slowly, Evelyn believed her «no» wouldnt ruin us. And maybe one day, when her fear feels less real than the card in her purse, well talk about a second child.
Honestly.
