She walked away—and that’s when my life truly began.
Emily married young, for love. She was twenty-three; he was thirty. Paul seemed mature, dependable, steady. He said all the right things, took her to the theatre, bought her wine, and swore he wanted a family, children.
At first, it was fine. They rented a flat in London, and she quit her dead-end job to keep the house. Paul didn’t mind. He earned enough; she cooked. On paper, it was perfect. But months passed, and Emily didn’t get pregnant. Then years. First came worry. Then fear. Then blame.
“Maybe you did something wrong when you were younger,” her mother-in-law once snapped. “My son’s perfectly healthy—it’s you who’s the problem.”
Emily stayed silent. She cried at night, combing through every possible reason, searching for fault in her own reflection. She visited doctors, took tests, endured injections, swallowed pills. Paul just brushed it off.
“I’m not wasting time in clinics. There’s nothing wrong with us. You’re just not trying hard enough.”
When, after five years of marriage, she suggested IVF, he exploded.
“What, I’m supposed to have a test-tube baby? Raise some kind of freak?”
After that fight, he left. Just walked out. Said, “A woman who can’t have children isn’t a wife.” And he moved in with a younger woman. Six months later, Emily heard the news: his new flame was pregnant. By then, she was in hospital—her last hope gone, her womb removed.
After the surgery, she shut down. Didn’t even answer her mother’s calls. She thought there was nothing left to live for. Everything inside her felt dead.
But her mother came anyway. Sat beside her. Said,
“You’re not a defective product. You’re a person. And you *will* be happy. Different than you imagined, but happy.”
Emily moved to Manchester. Started over. Rented a tiny flat, found a job, adopted a cat. She learned to live without fear. Without expectations. Without pain. Just… live.
And then came Victor. Tall, awkward, with kind eyes. He never made grand speeches. Just stayed for coffee one day, then lunch, then forever.
When she finally told him,
“I can’t have children…”
He shrugged.
“Then we’ll have a home without them. Or with someone else’s. Or with bloody *whoever*—as long as you’re there.”
A year later, they married. Took out a mortgage, got a dog, and then… a miracle. The doctors couldn’t explain it. But she was pregnant. At eight months, Victor wept, clutching her hand during the scan. A daughter. Theirs.
When she ran into Paul at Tesco years later, he was grey, slumped, with a gut from too many pints. He asked,
“So… you happy?”
She smiled.
“Very.”
He stood there, lost for words. And Emily turned and walked away. Because she finally understood—every bit of it had to happen. For her to find herself. For her daughter to exist. For her real life to begin.