Youre barrentherell be no grandchildren from you! sobbed my mother-in-law. She didnt know it was her son who was infertile, while I went on to bear a child with another man.
Margaret Elizabethmy husbands motherslammed her teacup onto its saucer with such force that the porcelain chimed mournfully.
An empty house. Echoes in every corner.
She cast a heavy, appraising glance around the sitting room, like an inspector searching for cracks in the foundation. Her perfume, the scent of withered liliesone she never changedfilled the air, suffocating everything else.
Every decent family has childrens laughter by now. What do we have?
My husband, Edward, set aside his phone, where hed been scrolling through the news with feigned interest.
Mother, stop. Weve discussed this.
Discussed! Her head snapped up. Youve talked, but what good are words? Seven years since the wedding! Seven!
I stayed silent, tracing the pattern on the wallpaper. It was my usual ritualturning myself into furniture until the storm passed. I knew every branch of that design by heart. Over seven years, Id memorised it perfectly.
Edward sighed, playing the part of the long-suffering son caught between two women.
Catherine just needs time. The doctors say we must wait.
A lie. Smooth, polished by years of repetition. A lie that had become as much a part of our home as the furniture or that damned wallpaper.
Margaret turned her gaze to me. There was no pity in her eyesonly a cold, calculated verdict.
Youre barren, Catherine. No grandchildren will come from you!
She said it not with anger, but with a deep, wounded resentment, as though Id deliberately stolen something vital from her.
Edward flinched.
Mother! I wont allow you to speak to my wife like that!
But his defence rang as hollow as his talk of doctors. He wasnt protecting mehe was guarding his own small, comfortable world where he was blameless.
I rose slowly.
I think Ill go lie down. My head aches.
Margaret merely pressed her lips together. Shed won. Again.
I shut the bedroom door behind me and leaned against it, my back pressed to the wood. I didnt cry. The tears had dried up years agoin the corridor of a clinic with peeling walls that smelled of bleach and despair.
Five years earlier. The fertility specialists office.
The grey-haired doctor in thick glasses studied Edwards test results, not us. He tapped the paper with his pen and delivered the verdict in a flat tone.
Absolute.
One word. Not chances, not treatment needed. Justabsolute.
Id squeezed Edwards hand then, to comfort him. But he wrenched free as if burned. His face turned ashen.
In the car, he was silent for a long time. Then he turned to me, and for the first time, I saw not love in his eyes, but cold fear.
No one must know. Do you hear me, Catherine? Especially not Mother. It would destroy her. Swear youll never tell.
And I, blinded by love and pity, swore. I, his faithful support, agreed to bear his cross. His shame.
I passed the closed door of the nursery. Wed painted its walls pale green seven years ago, right after the wedding. Now it stood as a silent accusation. A monument to our lies.
That evening, Edward came into the bedroom. He didnt apologise for his mother. He never did.
Ive been thinking, he began, studying his nails, that rooms going to waste. I need a studya desk, a computer.
He meant the nursery.
Be reasonable. Whats the point of unused space?
I looked at him and saw, for the first time in years, not my husband but a strangersomeone who spoke of our shared dream as if it were a bad investment.
You want to paint over the green walls, Edward?
He scowled, as if Id said something foolish.
Dont start, Catherine. We must face reality. Enough with illusions.
The next day, he brought home paint samples. Five shades of grey. He spread them across the kitchen table while I made coffee.
Look. Wet Asphalt or London Fog? Perfect for a study.
He spoke as if discussing a new kettle. Practical. Final.
I set a cup before him.
Edward, please. Its not just a room.
Whats there to remember? He didnt even look up. How naive we were? Stop living in the past. People change. I want a proper workspace. Thats final.
Two days later, returning from the shops, I found a paint roller and bucket in the hall. He hadnt waited for my consent. Hed declared war.
I stepped into the nursery. A ladder stood in the centre. In the corner, pushed aside, was the little white crib wed never dismantled. Our tiny white elephant.
Edward dusted it off.
We should sell it. Make some money. Be practical.
His practical struck me like a slap.
That Saturday, Margaret arrived unannounced, armed with a tape measure and notepad.
Quite right, Edward! High time! A man must work, not dwell on nonsense.
She strode into the nursery as if it were hers and began measuring the walls. Her stale lilies mingled with the sharp reek of primer.
Desk here. Shelves for files there. She glanced at me. Catherine, must you just stand there? Help your husband.
I stepped onto the balcony for air. But even there, the smell of paint followed. My home was no longer mineit was becoming hostile territory.
I left, wandering aimlessly until I stumbled into a small café. By the window sat Nicholas, an old university friend I hadnt seen in a decade.
He smiled and waved me over.
Catherine? Is that you? Its been years!
We spoke of nothingwork, the weather. He mentioned his late wife, how hed raised their daughter alone. The warmth in his voice when he spoke of her made my heart ache.
And you? he asked.
Looking into his honest eyes, I realised how tired I was of lying. But habit won.
Fine. Alls well.
You look exhausted, he said simply, without pityjust concern. Take care of yourself.
That ordinary conversation was a breath of fresh air after years of suffocation.
When I returned, Edward had started painting. One pale green wall was half-covered in a sickly grey. He was erasing our past, methodically, inch by inch.
He turned, smiling.
Well? Looks professional, doesnt it?
I said nothing. Just watched the grey creep like gangrene. He expected tears, arguments. My silence unnerved him more than any outburst.
The next day, I felt like a guest at my own lifes funeral. Edward and his mother painted with grim enthusiasm. Their voices echoed in the hollow room.
I washed dishes. Shopped. Answered when spoken to. I was there, yet already gone.
The final straw fell quietly.
Edward decided to dismantle the crib. I stood in the doorway, watching.
As he removed the slats, a small, forgotten plush box tumbled out. Id hidden it there years ago.
He picked it up, brushing off dust.
Whats this?
Inside lay tiny knitted booties Id made in our first year of marriage, and a cinema ticket from the night wed decided to try for a child.
He chuckled. Not at the memoryat the junk.
All these years. Best throw it out.
He moved toward the bin.
Something in me broke. Years of pain and silence crystallised into icy clarity. No anger. No self-pity. Just final, unshakable resolve.
I took the box from his hands.
Catherine?
I didnt answer. Just walked to the bedroom, opened the wardrobe, and pulled out a suitcase. I packed only what was mineblouses, jeans, toiletries, documents. And that plush box.
Edward appeared in the doorway, bewildered.
Youre upset? Its just old
He always missed the point.
The suitcase was half-empty. I owned almost nothing in that house.
I zipped it shut and walked past him. Margaret emerged from the nursery, wiping her hands.
More dramatics? Ungrateful girl. Edward works so hard
I stopped at the front door. Turned. Looked not at my husband, but straight into his mothers eyes.
Want to know why youve no grandchildren, Margaret?
My tonefree of deferencethrew her.
Ask your son. But demand the truth this time.
I didnt wait for a reaction. Just opened the door and left. And breathed, truly, for the first time in years.
That night, in a cheap hotel, I didnt cry. Just lay still, listening to an old fridge hum. The sound of emptiness was familiarbut now, the emptiness was mine.
My phone buzzedEdwards fury, Margarets theatrics. I silenced it.
The next morning, I called Nicholas.
Coffee? I need to talk.
In that same café, I told him everything. He listened without interrupting. When I finished, he didnt pity me. Just said:
Youre strong, Catherine. And stronger for leaving.
He helped me find a flat. His daughter, Emily, serious beyond her years, brought me dinner that evening. They asked for nothing in return.
The divorce was ugly. Edward hired expensive lawyers, called me unstable. But I had kept the clinics reports all these years. He lost.
Slowly, my new life filled with soundEmilys laughter, morning music, the creak of my own floorboards.
Nicholas and I grew close. He never rushed me.
A year later, as we sat in my kitchen, he took my hand.
I love you. Emily loves you. Be our family.
I said yes. Without fear.
Another year passed. After tests and consultations, a doctor smiled:
Congratulations. Youre having a boy.
In spring, James was bornloud, bright-eyed, with his fathers honest gaze. My son. Proof that I was never barren. It was my love for Edward that had been sterile.
Years later, I saw him in a department store, alone, greyingstudying expensive watches with the same hollow calculation hed once used on paint samples.
Our eyes met. He looked away first.
I felt nothing. No anger. No victory. Just peace.
Mum, look! I built a rocket! James, nearly five, proudly displayed his block creation. Beside him, ten-year-old Emily adjusted its wings.
Needs stabilisers, or itll crash.
Nicholas kissed my shoulder as I pulled a pie from the oven.
Our kitchen wasnt perfect. It was alivecluttered with drawings, magnets, laughter.
On the shelf, beside cookbooks, sat that plush box. Now joined by Jamess tiny footprint and Emilys first sketch. No longer a relic of painjust the place where my life began.
I didnt look back. Their story ended the day I walked out. Mine started herein a home full of light.
