«You’re barrenthere’ll be no grandchildren from you!» sobbed my mother-in-law. She didnt know it was her son who was infertile. Meanwhile, I went off to have a baby with someone else.
Margaret Elizabethmy husbands motherslammed her teacup onto the saucer with such force the fine china gave a mournful clink.
«An empty house. Echoes bouncing off the walls.»
She cast a heavy, appraising gaze around the living room, like an inspector hunting for cracks in the foundation. Her perfumethat same stale lily scent shed worn for decadesfilled the air, smothering everything else.
«Normal people have children laughing by now. What do we have?»
My husband, Edward, set down his phone, where hed been scrolling through the news with the air of a man deeply preoccupied.
«Mum, enough. Weve talked about this.»
«Talked!» she snapped, jerking her head up. «Oh, youve *talked*but what goods come of it? Seven years since the wedding! Seven!»
I stayed silent, studying the wallpaper pattern. It was my usual ritualto become part of the furniture until the storm passed. I knew every leaf and vine of that design by heart. Seven years had made me an expert.
Edward sighed, playing the part of the eternally put-upon son. He loved this rolethe martyr caught between two women.
«Claires just going through a phase. The doctors say we should wait.»
A lie. Polished smooth by years of repetition. A lie as much a part of our home as the furniture or that wretched wallpaper.
Margaret turned her gaze on me. There was no sympathy in her eyes. Just a cold, calculated verdict.
«Youre barren, Claire! I’ll never get grandchildren from you!»
She didnt say it with anger, but with a deep, wounded resentmentas though Id deliberately stolen something priceless from her.
Edward leapt to his feet.
«Mum! I wont let you speak to my wife like that!»
But his defense rang as hollow as his talk of «doctors.» He wasnt protecting *me*. He was shielding his own little worldone where he remained forever blameless.
I stood slowly.
«I think Ill go lie down. Bit of a headache.»
Margaret just pressed her lips together. Shed won. Again.
I shut the bedroom door behind me and leaned against it. I didnt cry. Id run out of tears years agoin the hospital corridor with its peeling walls that smelled of bleach and despair.
Five years earlier. The fertility specialists office.
A grey-haired doctor in thick glasses looked not at us, but at Edwards test results. He tapped the paper with his pen and said, flatly:
«Completely.»
One word. Not «theres hope,» not «treatment might help.» Just*completely*.
Id reached for Edwards hand to comfort him. But hed jerked away as if burned. His face had gone grey.
In the car, hed been silent for ages. Then he turned to me, and for the first time, I saw not love in his eyesbut cold, naked fear.
«No one must know. Especially Mum. It would destroy her. Swear youll never tell.»
And I, blinded by love and pity, swore. I, his faithful support, agreed to carry his cross.
Now, walking past the closed door of what shouldve been the nurserypainted in soft mint green right after the weddingit felt like a silent accusation. A monument to our lies.
That evening, Edward came into the bedroom. He didnt apologize for his mother. He never did.
«Ive been thinking,» he started, studying his nails, «that rooms wasted space. I need a proper study. Desk, computer.»
He meant the nursery.
«Its practical, dont you think? No point letting square footage go to waste.»
I stared at him and saw, for the first time in years, not the man Id lovedbut a stranger. Someone who spoke of our shared dream like a bad investment.
«You want to paint over the mint walls, Edward?»
He grimaced, as though Id said something ridiculous.
«Claire, be reasonable. Enough with the fantasies.»
The next day, he brought home paint samples. Five shades of grey. Spread them across the kitchen table while I made coffee.
«Look. ‘Urban Slate’ or ‘London Fog’? Stylish, dont you think? Perfect for a study.»
He spoke as if picking out a new kettle. Casually. Decisively.
I set his cup down.
«Edward, dont. Its not just a room. You know that.»
«Whats to know?» He didnt even look up. «We were naive. Move on. I want a proper workspace. End of.»
Two days later, returning from the shops, I found a paint roller and tray in the hall. Edward hadnt waited for my permission. Hed declared war.
I stepped into the nursery. A ladder stood in the middle. In the corner, shoved aside, was the lone cot wed never dismantledour little white elephant.
Edward dusted it off.
«Should sell this on Gumtree. Might even make a few quid. Practical, right?»
His *practical* felt like a slap.
On Saturday, Margaret arrived unannounced, armed with a tape measure and notepad.
«Good, Edward! About time! A man needs a proper officenot nonsense about babies.»
She marched into the nursery like she owned it and started measuring walls. Her suffocating lilies mixed with the sharp tang of primer.
«Desk here. Shelves for files there. Claire, dont just stand theremake yourself useful! Or dont you care how your husband works?»
I stepped onto the balcony for air. But even there, the smell of paint followed. This wasnt my home anymore. It was hostile territory.
I left, wandering aimlessly until I stumbled into a little café. There, by the window, sat Nicholasan old uni mate I hadnt seen in a decade.
He grinned. «Claire? Bloody hell! Years, isnt it?»
We talked about nothingwork, weather. He mentioned hed been widowed, was 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 suddenly realized how tired I was of lying. But habit won.
«Fine. All good.»
«You look knackered,» he said simplyno pity, just kindness. «Take care of yourself, yeah?»
That unexpected chat was the first fresh air Id breathed in years.
When I got home, Edward was already painting. One mint wall was half-covered in a corpse-like grey. He was erasing our past. Methodically.
He turned, smiling.
«Well? Looks smart, doesnt it? Very professional.»
I said nothing. Just watched the grey creep like gangrene. Hed expected tears, shouts. My silence unnerved him more than any tantrum.
The next day, I felt like a guest at my own lifes funeral. Edward and Margaret painted with gusto, their voices bouncing off the bare walls.
I washed dishes, shopped, answered when spoken to. I was therebut already gone.
The final straw fell quietly.
Edward decided the cot had to go. Started dismantling it with brisk efficiency. I watched from the doorway.
When he removed the slats, a tiny plush box tumbled outsomething Id hidden there years ago.
He picked it up, blew off the dust.
«Oh. Whats this?»
Inside were the knitted booties Id made our first year married, and the cinema ticket from the night wed decided to try for a baby.
He snorted. Not a relicjust clutter.
«Bloody hell, years old. Bin it.»
Said so casually. So coldly. He moved toward the trash.
Something in me broke. All the pain, the humiliation, the years of silent lies condensed into a single, icy clarity. No rage. Just certainty.
I took the box from his hands.
«Claire?» He frowned. «What?»
I didnt answer. Just walked to the bedroom, pulled out a suitcase. Packed only my thingsblouses, jeans, toiletries, documents. And that plush box.
Edward appeared in the doorway, baffled.
«Youre upset? Claire, its just old junk. Keep it if youre that bothered.»
He always missed the point.
The suitcase was half-empty. Turns out, in this life, I owned almost nothing.
I zipped it up and walked past him. Margaret stood in the hall, wiping her hands on a rag.
«More dramatics? Ungrateful. Edwards trying to better himself, and you»
I stopped at the front door. Looked her dead in the eye.
«Want to know why youve no grandchildren, Margaret?»
She faltered at my toneno meekness left.
«Ask your son. And make him tell the truth this time.»
I didnt wait for reactions. Just opened the door and left. And breathed properly for the first time in years.
That first night, I stayed in a cheap hotel. Didnt cry. Just lay there, listening to the fridge hum. The sound of emptiness was familiarbut now, it was *mine*.
My phone blew upEdward furious, Margaret wailing. I silenced it.
Next morning, I called Nicholas.
«Fancy coffee? Need to talk.»
In that same café, for the first time in seven years, I told the whole truth. He listened. Didnt pity. Just said:
«Youre strong, Claire. Stronger for leaving.»
He helped me find a flat. His daughter, Emily, brought me dinner that night. No strings.
The divorce was ugly. Edward hired a pricey lawyer, called me «unstable.» But I had the medical reports Id kept all those years. He lost.
Slowly, my new life filled with soundEmilys laughter, music in the mornings, the creak of my own floorboards.
Nicholas and I grew close. He never rushed me.
A year later, over tea in my tiny kitchen, he took my hand.
«I love you. So does Emily. Be our family.»
I said yes. No fear.
Another year on, after tests and consultations, a doctor smiled:
«Congratulations. Its a boy.»
James arrived in springloud, bright-eyed, with his fathers honest gaze. Proof I was never barren. It was my first marriage that was sterile.
Years later, at the park, an old neighbour told me Edward had sold the flat. Lives alone. Margaret visits weekendscleans, cooks. Cries.
I looked at James, asleep in his pram. Felt no gloating. Just peace.
Now, our kitchens cluttered with crayon drawings and mismatched magnets. On the shelf sits that plush boxnext to Jamess tiny footprint and Emilys first sketch. Not a wound anymore. A milestone.
Once, at a mall, I saw Edward. Grey now, tired. Staring at expensive watches the way hed once studied grey paint swatches. Trying to fill the void with things.
Our eyes met. He looked away first.
«Alright?» Nicholas squeezed my hand.
I turned to him, to Emily and James bickering over toy shops.
«Perfect. Nowfire engine or dollhouse?»
We walked off laughing. I didnt look back.
Their story ended the day I walked out. Mine began herein a home full of noise, warmth, and light.
