**In the Shadow of Challenges**
“I’m not a babysitter,” snapped Thomas. “I work my socks off at the office.”
“But I need to go to the hairdresser,” pleaded Olivia.
“Just book a mobile stylist. It’s barely more expensive.”
Neither of them had parents around to help—not Olivia, not Thomas. His mum and dad had long since packed up for Toronto and showed no signs of returning, grandkids or not.
“He’s brilliant!” Olivia would insist about her husband, but her friends just shook their heads.
Her closest mate, Emily, pursed her lips and scolded, “I wouldn’t put up with that! Are you his servant? Why does he act like this?”
The subject was Thomas. He and Olivia had been married six years, but her friends were convinced she’d made a mistake. To them, Thomas was a tyrant, a domineering brute who steamrolled her wishes.
Their household *was* a bit unconventional. Thomas brought in the pounds—he ran his own logistics firm—but at home, he lifted not a finger. Cooking, cleaning, laundry—all Olivia. Their four-year-old son, Oliver, was her responsibility too. Thomas refused to let her go anywhere without the boy in tow.
“I’m not a nanny,” he’d repeat. “I’m knackered.”
“Come visit us!” chirped his mum, Margaret. “Oliver and I would love some bonding time. Though flying’s a bother at our age.”
She was barely past sixty, but coaxing them to their little town of Lakeside was impossible. Thomas kept promising a trip to Toronto, but it never happened.
Olivia’s mum, Helen, had raised her alone after the divorce. Dad had vanished when she was two, and Helen passed from an illness seven years back. Back then, in her grief, it wasn’t her friends who steadied her—it was Thomas, who she’d only just started dating. Emily, who lived next door, had been “under the weather” when Olivia called. Understandable, maybe, but in that raw pain, it was Thomas who stuck by her.
Two years later, they married. Oliver came along three years after that—and that’s when Olivia realised: Thomas was hopeless at home. She juggled it all. Meet-ups with friends dwindled—they weren’t keen on her dragging Oliver along. He’d fuss, need feeding, changing. She saw their irritation, their craving for a break from their own kids. So she stopped going. No one complained.
Emily still popped round. She lived with her bloke, no ring, no plans for kids.
“Why not hire a nanny?” she asked once.
Olivia blinked. Why would she need one? She managed. Thomas gave her money—she could call cleaners, chefs, whatever.
“What for?” Olivia shrugged.
“You’re *always* with Oliver! You’ll go spare.”
“Why? He’s my son. I love him.”
“You need a break. Or is your tightwad husband skimping on childcare?”
Olivia stayed quiet. She hadn’t asked Thomas about a nanny, but she could guess his reply: “Sort it yourself.”
“Exactly. And you call him *brilliant*,” Emily sneered.
“He *is*! I’m happy. Why are you meddling?”
They rowed. Emily stormed off. Olivia exhaled. Everything was *fine*. Thomas was wonderful. If people didn’t like it—good riddance.
Thomas worked hard, micromanaging his business. Sometimes, he made time for family—took Oliver to the park or the cinema. Olivia saw how he adored their son. But at home? Useless. Couldn’t even butter toast, insisting that was “her job.” *”I should look after myself,”* Olivia thought, and her chest tightened. Why was she even thinking that?
A week later, she found out she was pregnant.
“Hooray! Oliver’s getting a sister!” Thomas beamed.
“Poetry now, is it?” Olivia smiled.
But the unease that had crept up in the park wouldn’t leave. Thomas and Oliver had been on the carousel while she watched. For the first time, she’d thought: *He can’t manage without me.* And now—another life. Joy, but fear too. Why? She couldn’t say.
They enrolled Oliver in nursery.
“Less strain on you. You’re pregnant,” Thomas said.
But at home, Olivia still did everything.
“What’ll you do when I’m in hospital?” she asked.
“Not my first rodeo. We survived last time.”
“Oliver wasn’t born then.”
“Pfft. He eats at nursery. I’ll order pizza for dinner.”
“*Very* nutritious,” Olivia sighed.
She rang Margaret, hinting they’d love a visit.
“Bring Oliver to us!” came the reply.
Olivia nearly spat, *”He doesn’t even know you!”* Grandparents who’d only ever video-called. Not the same.
It was clear: they weren’t coming. Olivia told herself three days in hospital wouldn’t kill Thomas or Oliver.
Nursery *did* ease things. Olivia shopped, got her nails done, even saw a film—though she bawled through the sad bits. She met the girls once but refused wine. Their old classmate, Sophie, scoffed:
“First it’s the kid—no meals, no drinks. Now you’re pregnant, scared of wine. What sort of life is that?”
“A normal one. I like it,” Olivia shot back.
She decided no more meet-ups. Two years without them hadn’t killed her.
The pregnancy went smoothly. Scans showed a girl. But when contractions hit, the nightmare began. The ambulance took her in at midnight.
“I’ll drop Oliver at nursery, then come to you!” Thomas called.
She drilled him on the details, terrified he’d mix it up.
“Relax, woman! I’ll go where everyone else does!” he waved her off.
“His *class*! They’re separate!”
“Mum, I *know* his class! Go get my sister!” Oliver chimed in.
The doctor grinned. The ambulance sped off.
Labour dragged twelve hours. Exhausted, but no progress. Second babies are meant to be easier—not for her. Blood pressure fine, doctors pushed for natural birth. Inductions failed. Finally, a C-section.
The girl was healthy, but Olivia felt worse.
“I feel awful,” she kept telling the doctor.
Fever spiked. Tests, drips—nothing helped. Inflammation raged, but no cause. After three days, Thomas took their daughter home. Olivia stayed. Through the 40-degree haze, one fear gnawed: *How will they cope? What if I die? What happens to the kids?*
They called in Professor Griffiths, the best gynaecologist in the county. He took one look at her and barked:
“CT scan. Now!”
The scan showed the problem. “Hold on, love,” Griffiths said. “We’ll sedate you, or you won’t make surgery. You’ll be fine.”
Olivia gave a weak nod. Before the injection, she heard they’d remove her womb.
“But the C-section was clean!” the junior doctors flustered.
“*Happens*,” Griffiths cut in. “Prep her. I’ll operate.”
Post-op, Olivia woke. A nurse relayed Thomas’s message: he’d visited with the pram but didn’t stay.
“Said not to worry. They’re fine.”
“*Fine*? He can’t even make Oliver porridge!”
“Oh, he managed,” the nurse smiled. “Bottled the baby too. Rest up. He’ll bring them soon.”
“No note, though,” Olivia smirked, fading back under the drugs.
She spent two weeks in hospital. They didn’t want to discharge her after such an ordeal, but Olivia insisted she felt better. Home comforts would heal her.
Home was tidy. Thomas collected her in the car. Oliver was at nursery; baby slept in her car seat.
“How is she? Keeping you up?” Olivia asked.
“She’s grand. Don’t fret,” Thomas said, expertly settling her in the cot. “Lie down. Need to change your dressing.”
“*You’re* doing it?”
“Who else?”
As Olivia recovered, Thomas took leave. Collected Oliver, pushed the pram.
“I can watch her!” Olivia argued.
“You can, but no lifting. It’s no bother. Now—names?”
Nothing fit. Olivia suggested, “What about Lily? After Mum.”
“Lovely,” Thomas nodded. “I like it.”
“Really?”
“Course. I’m not a monster.”
“What about work? You *never* delegate!”
“My deputy’s got it. We’ll be alright.”
Thomas took the night feeds. Olivia didn’t argue—strength returned slowly. She barely believed it: the man who couldn’t slice bread had handled *everything*—kids, house, her illness. She’d always known he was decent. But *this* decent?
“Thomas, you’re amazing,” she whispered at nightOlivia drifted off, listening to Thomas humming to Lily in the nursery, and realised—some shadows were only temporary, after all.