**Diary Entry**
*Youre barrendont expect grandchildren from you!* My mother-in-law sobbed, not knowing the truththat it was her son who was sterile, not me. And so, I left to bear a child with another.
Margaret Whitmoremy husbands motherslammed her teacup onto the saucer with such force that the fine china let out a pitiful chime.
*This empty flat. Echoes in every corner.*
She cast a heavy, scrutinising gaze across the sitting room, like an inspector searching for cracks in the foundation. Her perfumesickly sweet with the scent of wilted lilies, unchanged for decadesfilled the air, suffocating everything else.
*Decent people already have children laughing in their homes. What do we have?*
My husband, Edwin, set down his phone, where hed been scrolling through the news with an air of detached intelligence.
*Mum, please. Weve talked about this.*
*Talked!* She jerked her head up sharply. *Youve talked, but what good is your chatter? Seven years since the wedding! Seven!*
I stayed silent, tracing the wallpapers delicate pattern. It was my ritualto become part of the furniture until the storm passed. I knew every branch, every leaf of that design by heart. Over seven years, I had memorised it completely.
Edwin exhaled, feigning cosmic exhaustion. He loved this rolethe martyr son, torn between two women.
*Katherine just needs time. The doctors say we must wait.*
A lie. Smooth, polished by years of repetition. A lie that had become part of our home, like the furniture or that damned wallpaper.
Margaret turned her gaze on me. There was no sympathy in her eyesonly a cold, measured verdict.
*You’re barren, Katherine! Youll never give me grandchildren!*
She didnt say it in anger, but with deep, wounded resentment, as if I had deliberately stolen something vital from her.
Edwin jumped to his feet.
*Mum! I wont allow you to speak to my wife like that!*
But his defence rang as hollow as his mention of *doctors.* He wasnt protecting me. He was guarding his own comfortable little worldwhere he bore no responsibility.
I rose slowly.
*I think Ill go lie down. My head is aching.*
Margaret only pressed her lips together. She had won. Again.
I shut the bedroom door behind me and leaned against it. I didnt cry. My tears had dried years agoin the corridor of that clinic with its peeling walls, stinking of bleach and despair.
Five years ago. The fertility specialists office.
A greying doctor in thick glasses looked not at us, but at Edwins test results. He tapped the paper with his pen and said, flatly:
*Completely.*
One word. Not *theres a chance,* not *treatment may help.* Just *completely.*
I had gripped Edwins hand then, to comfort him. But he wrenched it away 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 eyesbut cold, gutting fear.
*No one can know. Understand, Katherine? Especially not Mum. It would destroy her. Swear youll never tell.*
And I, blinded by love and pity, swore. I, his devoted wife, agreed to carry his cross. His shame.
I walked past the closed door of the nursery. We had painted those walls a soft mint green seven years ago, just after the wedding. Now, that room was a silent reproach. A monument to our lie.
That evening, Edwin came into the bedroom. He didnt apologise for his mother. He never apologised.
*Ive been thinking,* he began, studying his nails. *That room is wasted space. I need an officea desk, a computer.*
He meant the nursery.
*Its practical, dont you think? Why let good square footage go unused?*
I looked at him and, for the first time, saw not the man I lovedbut a stranger. Someone who spoke of our shared dream like a bad investment.
*You want to paint over the mint walls, Edwin?*
He frowned as if I were being irrational.
*Katherine, be realistic. Its time to stop clinging to fantasies.*
The next day, he brought home paint samples. Five shades of grey. He spread them across the kitchen table while I made coffee.
*LookUrban Slate or London Mist? Stylish, dont you think? Perfect for an office.*
He spoke as if discussing a new kettle. Matter-of-factly. Decidedly.
I set his cup before him.
*Edwin, dont. That room isnt just a room. You know that.*
*Whats there to know?* He didnt even look up. *How naïve we were? Its time to move on. Priorities change. I need proper workspace. End of discussion.*
Two days later, returning from the shops, I found a paint roller and tray in the hall. Edwin hadnt waited for my consent. Hed declared war.
I stepped into the nursery. A ladder stood in the centre. In the corner, shoved aside, was the single crib wed never dismantledour little white elephant.
Edwin dusted it off.
*We should sell this on Gumtree. Might as well get something back.*
His *practicality* struck me like a slap.
That Saturday, Margaret arrived unannounced. She brought a tape measure and notepad.
*Quite right, Edwin! High time! A man should focus on work, not nonsense.*
She strode into the nursery as if she owned it, briskly measuring the walls. Her cloying lilies mingled with the acrid smell of primer.
*Desk here. Shelves for files there. Katherine, stop gawkingmake yourself useful. Or do you not care how your husband works?*
I stepped onto the balcony just to breathe. But even there, the scent of paint followed. My home was no longer mine. It was becoming hostile territory.
I slipped out, aimless, wandering until I stumbled into a café. By the window sat Nicholasan old university mate I hadnt seen in a decade.
He grinned and waved. *Katie? Is that you?*
I joined him. We spoke of nothingwork, the weather. He mentioned losing his wife years ago, raising his daughter alone. The warmth in his voice when he spoke of her made my chest ache.
*And you?* he asked.
Looking into his honest eyes, I realised how tired I was of lying. But habit was stronger.
*Fine. All good.*
*You look exhausted,* he said simplynot pitying, but kind. *Take care of yourself, yeah?*
That small talk, that unexpected meeting, was the first fresh breath Id taken in years.
When I returned, Edwin was already painting. One mint wall was half-covered in sterile grey. He was erasing our pastmethodically, stroke by stroke.
He turned, smiling. *Well? Looks smart, doesnt it?*
I said nothing. Just watched the grey creep like gangrene. He expected tears, shouting. My silence unnerved him more than any outburst.
The next day, I felt like a guest at my own lifes funeral. Edwin and Margaret painted with enthusiasm, their voices bouncing hollowly off the empty walls.
I moved mechanicallywashing dishes, shopping, answering when spoken to. I was there, yet already gone.
The final straw fell silently.
Edwin decided the crib had to go. He dismantled it briskly. I stood in the doorway, watching.
When he removed the slats, a small forgotten box tumbled out. I had hidden it there years ago.
He picked it up, brushing off dust.
*Whats this?*
Inside were tiny knitted booties Id made our first year married, and a cinema ticket from the night we decided we were ready.
He scoffed. To him, it was junk.
*Shouldve tossed this years ago.*
He said it so casually. So coldly. And moved toward the bin.
Something in me shattered. Years of pain, humiliation, silent endurance crystallised into icy clarity. No anger. No self-pity. Just final, unshakable resolve.
I took the box from his hands.
*Katie?* He looked baffled.
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 little box.
Edwin appeared in the doorway. *Youre upset? Its just old junk. Keep it if you like.*
He never understood.
The suitcase was pitifully light. I owned almost nothing in that life.
Zipping it, I walked past him. Margaret stood in the hall, wiping her hands on a rag.
*More dramatics? Ungrateful girl. Edwin provides, and she*
I stopped at the front door. Turned. Looked not at my husband, but straight at his mother.
*Want to know why youve no grandchildren, Margaret?*
She faltered at my toneno meekness left.
*Ask your son. But this time, demand the truth.*
I didnt wait for a reaction. Didnt look at Edwins stricken face. Just opened the door and stepped out. And breathedfullyfor the first time in years.
The first night, I stayed in a cheap hotel. Didnt cry. Just lay there, listening to an old fridge hum. The sound of emptiness was familiarbut now, the emptiness belonged to me.
My phone buzzed endlesslyEdwins rage, Margarets theatrics. I silenced it.
The next morning, I called Nicholas. *Fancy coffee? I need to talk.*
In that same café, by that same window, I told the truththe whole truthfor the first time in seven years. He listened. Didnt pity. Just said:
*Youre strong, Katie. Stronger for leaving.*
He helped me find a flat. His daughter, Mollyserious beyond her yearsbrought me dinner that night. They asked for nothing.
The divorce was ugly. Edwin hired a pricey solicitor, painting me as *unstable.* But I had kept the clinic reports all these years. He lost.
Slowly, my new life filled with soundMollys laughter as we made dumplings, morning radio, the creak of my own floorboards.
Nicholas and I grew closer. He never rushed me.
A year later, as we sat in my tiny kitchen, he took my hand.
*Katie, I love you. Molly loves you. Be our family.*
I said *yes.* Without fear.
Another year on, after countless tests, a doctor smiled. *Congratulationsits a boy.*
In spring, Henry was bornloud, bright-eyed, with his fathers honest gaze. My son. Proof I was never barren. It was my first love that had been sterile.
Years later, I ran into an old neighbour. She told me Edwin had sold the flat. Lives alone. Margaret visits weekendscleans, cooks. And cries.
I looked at Henry, asleep in his pram. Felt no gloating, no pity. Only peace.
Five years on, Henry proudly showed me a *rocket* built of blocks. Molly, now ten, corrected his design with mock seriousness.
*Mum, look! And Molly says it needs wings!*
Nicholas kissed my temple as I pulled a pie from the oven. Our kitchen wasnt perfectjust alive. Drawings taped to the fridge, magnets, happy chaos.
On the shelf sat that little box. Now beside itHenrys tiny footprint, Mollys first sketch. It was no longer a symbol of pain. Just the start of a new story.
Once, in a department store, I saw Edwin. Grey now. Tired. He stared at expensive watches with the same empty deliberation hed once used on paint samples.
Our eyes met. He recognised me. For a secondpain. Then, the familiar mask. He turned away.
I felt nothing. No anger, no victory. Just quiet acceptance.
*Katie, alright?* Nicholas touched my arm.
I turned to him, to Molly and Henry bickering over toy shops.
*Perfect. Nowfire engine or dollhouse?*
We walked on, laughing. I didnt look back.
Their story ended the day I walked out. Mine began herein a home full of sunlight, laughter, and love.
