**An Honest Conversation**
I met Irene at a Spanish class. She was quiet, almost distant, with large grey eyes that seemed to hold an entire story inside them. Around her, I felt strong, protective.
She had a five-year-old son, Oliver, and was raising him alone. About the boys father and her past marriage, Irene said littlejust that they «didnt get along» and that the first years after the divorce had been hard.
It didnt scare me off. Quite the opposite. The way she looked at Oliverwith such fierce, almost painful tenderness, as if shed shield him from the whole worldmade me want to be their fortress, the safe place where they could finally breathe. Besides, I wanted children of my own.
We married a year and a half later. I rented a cottage in the woods, and on the top floor, right under the eaves, I proposed. She laughed and cried at once, while Oliver clapped, not quite grasping the moment but feeling the joy in the air.
That night, lying in bed and staring at the stars through the skylight, I finally said what Id been dreaming of:
«You know, itd be wonderful if Oliver had a little brother or sister. I really want that.»
Irene didnt answer. She just pressed closer, hiding her face against my chest. I thought she was movedthat her silence meant yes.
We started «trying.» I read up on fertility, bought her vitamins, eagerly discussed turning the spare room into a nursery. She nodded and smiled, but there was something stiff in her smile. I put it down to exhaustion or nerves.
Everything shattered on an ordinary Tuesday. I was looking for spare toothpaste in the bathroom when I saw a blister pack peeking out from her makeup bag. I Googled the name on my phone. Contraceptives.
At first, I didnt believe it. Maybe an old pack shed forgotten to throw out? But the expiry date was fine. A few pills were missing.
It was like a punch to the head. I stepped out of the bathroom and froze in the doorway. Irene was at the kitchen table, checking Olivers homework.
«Irene?» I said, louder than I meant to. «Whats this?»
I held out the packet. She looked up, and everything in her facethe fear, the guilt, the panicgave me my answer.
«Are you taking these now?» I asked, my voice eerily calm.
She nodded, unable to meet my eyes. Her lashes trembled, tears close. Oliver, startled by our voices, went still, glancing between us.
«Why?» One word, carrying all my hurt.
«You wouldnt understand,» she whispered, tears spilling.
«If you explain, Ill try.»
We moved to the living room, sending Oliver to his bedroom. Irene sat hunched, hands clasped tight.
«I dont want another child, Daniel. 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 talk?»
«I didnt lie!» she snapped, finally looking at me. «I just didnt argue.»
«Thats worse than lying!» I paced the room. «I made plans, I was happy, I believed in it! And you stayed silent, taking pills! Why? Do you think Id love my own child more than Oliver? I treat him like mine!»
«Its not about Oliver!» Her voice was raw. «Its about me! I cant be alone with a child again. I cant depend like that. I wont go back to having no money, no rights, no voice!»
«You dont want one at all? Or just not now?»
She covered her face, then wiped it roughly, smearing tears.
«At all. You dont know what its likecounting every penny, begging for money like a pauper, being needed only for nappies and dinner. I barely survived, Daniel! 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, drained. And I stood there, hearing the echo of her words. Suddenly, everything made senseher frugality, her fear of conflict, her need for her own wages. Not quirks. Scars.
I sat opposite her. The anger was gone.
«Irene,» I said softly. «Im not him. Im not your ex.»
«I know,» she whispered. «But fear isnt logical. It just is.»
The next day, I went to the bank. That evening, I placed a card on the table.
«Your own account. Half our savings, every month. Your money. Spend it, save it, burn it. So you always know its there.»
She stared at it, dazed.
«Why?» she asked, just as I had.
«So youre not afraid. So you stay with me because you want to, not because youve nowhere else.»
She took the card, clutched it, and nodded. A tiny, almost imperceptible nod. But it meant more than any vow. That night, we found something fragilean understanding. But Id underestimated the depth of her fear.
The next evening, the flat was empty. A note lay on the kitchen table, in her neat handwriting:
*Daniel, I need time. I cant think here. Weve gone to Sophies. Dont callIm not ready to talk. Im sorry.*
My first reaction was rage. Running again! Silence again! I calledher phone was off. Sent messagesunread.
Then I rang Sophie, Irenes childhood friend.
«Sophie, can I talk to her?» I kept my voice steady.
«Daniel, she cant right now,» Sophie said, oddly formal.
«This is childish! Just pass the phone!»
«Shes not ready. And I get it. Youve no idea how she is.»
Anger flared.
«How is she? How do you think I am? We sorted it yesterday! I gave her the card so she wouldnt be afraid!»
«The cards good,» Sophie sighed. «But its a plaster on a bullet wound. You werent listening all those months. Just pushing your dreams. Yesterday, the way you looked at hershe cried all night. She thinks you hate her now.»
«I dont hate her! I just» I stopped. Yes, Id been angry. Betrayed. But hate? No.
«Give her time,» Sophie said gently. «She didnt run from you. She ran from herself, from the panic. Let her breathe.»
I agreed. A day passed. Then another. The silence was maddening. On the third day, I cracked and texted Sophienot Irene.
*Sophie, I cant do this. Tell her I dont demand she comes back. Just need to know she and Oliver are okay. Say Im not angry. Im waiting.*
Half an hour later, Sophie replied: *Olivers finethinks your Wi-Fis down so youre not calling. Irene its complicated. But Ill tell her.*
An hour later, a message from Irene. Two words.
*Im alive. Waiting.*
Attached was a photo of Oliver building Lego. That tiny word*waiting*was my lifeline. Not *leave me alone*, but *waiting*. The door wasnt shut forever.
Sophie was right. Time wasnt for meI was already calm. It was for her panic, that ancient fear of helplessness, to fade. So she could believe my *waiting* was real.
She called two weeks later:
«Daniel, I miss you. I want to come home. And I Im ready to talk.»
«Waiting!» I grinned. «Ill order pizza.»
We didnt speak about a child that night. Or the next month. But we learned to trust again. Slowly, without masks. Irene learned her *no* wouldnt break us.
Maybe one day, when her fear feels less real than the card in her purse, well talk about a second child.
The important thing is honesty.
