Emily stood by the bathroom sink, clutching the pregnancy test in her trembling hand. One line. Just like last time. And the time before that. She stared, willing a second one to appear—faintly, even just a shadow. But nothing changed.
Her throat tightened. She lowered the test, exhaled slowly, and stepped back into the bedroom. The same cycle again. False hope, waiting, and then the crushing disappointment. Yet this time, she had been so sure—so certain it would be different.
That evening, Thomas, her husband, returned home. She didn’t even let him take off his coat before the words spilled out.
“Still not pregnant.”
He crossed the room and pulled her close. She pressed her face into his chest, fighting back tears.
“The doctors said there’s still a chance,” he murmured. “We could try IVF. We’re not giving up.”
“And if that doesn’t work?” Emily looked up at him. “What then?”
Thomas smoothed her hair with a gentle hand.
“We carry on, just as we are. Together. Happily.”
But the answer brought her no peace. Deep down, she knew—one day, he’d long to be a father in truth. And then what? Would he leave? Regret tying his life to a woman who couldn’t give him that?
They’d been trying for three years. At first, it was effortless, without pressure. Then came the schedules, the calculations, the visits to specialists. There had been a problem, but it was fixed. The tests were perfect now. Still, no child.
Every month, Emily endured the same cruel routine—hope, waiting, heartbreak, tears. And then there was his mother. Margaret.
From the moment Emily and Thomas married, his mother had awaited grandchildren. First, there were hints. Then came the pointed questions. Soon after, the accusations.
Thomas had tried to reason with her, begged her to stop, but nothing deterred her.
“Everyone else has two by now, and you’ve none!” she would huff. “What sort of family is that?”
Whenever Margaret visited, Emily’s heart turned cold. She knew—inevitably—the conversation would turn to children. To the “daughter-in-law who must be hiding something.” To the “poor son wasting his best years.”
Margaret never shouted. Never outright scolded. Yet every word dripped with pity, each phrase a needle pricking Emily’s resolve. And slowly, a thought took root: perhaps Thomas truly did need someone else. A woman who could give him what she couldn’t. Wouldn’t that be fair?
One evening, Margaret left with an especially sour expression. Days later, while Thomas was away on business, the doorbell rang.
“Did he forget something?” Emily wondered.
But it wasn’t Thomas standing there. It was Margaret—wrapped in her coat, clutching her handbag, eyes sharp with purpose.
“May I come in? We need to talk, Emily.” Without waiting, she stepped inside and marched to the kitchen.
Emily moved on instinct, filling the kettle.
“What is it?”
“You’re a good girl, Emily. Kind. Clever. But you must let him go.”
Emily’s hand faltered. The cup nearly slipped.
“What?”
“You already know,” Margaret continued. “Three years with no child. Thomas won’t admit it, but I see it—he’s unhappy. He deserves a proper family. If you love him, do what’s right. Set him free.”
Emily said nothing. The words tore at her—voicing the fear she’d tried to bury. Spoken so plainly, they almost made sense. A cruel kindness wrapped in sacrifice.
“We’ll decide for ourselves,” she whispered.
“He won’t leave you. He pities you. But surely you see—this isn’t a life. He needs a woman who can give him what you can’t.”
Then she was gone. Emily stayed at the kitchen table, numb. The ache inside swelled. She wanted to scream, but the strength had left her. She wanted to call Thomas—but what would she say?
When he returned three days later, she finally broke.
“I… I should let you go. You deserve happiness, Thomas. You should be a father.”
“What are you on about?” He gripped her shoulders. “Have you lost your mind?”
“I can’t give you a child. You’ve always wanted this. And I—”
“So that’s it? You’d throw us away? I love *you*, Emily. Not for children. Not for what you can give me. Just you.”
“But what if I never can?”
“Then I’ll stay with you. Always. No conditions.”
She wept. Told him everything—the visit, the words, the quiet devastation.
Thomas turned pale. The next morning, he went to his mother’s.
Neighbors whispered for weeks about what happened inside that flat. He shouted. Swore she’d never set foot in their home again. Warned her never to interfere. And he meant it.
Six months passed before Margaret saw her son again. Or Emily. Or the grandchild she’d longed for—because a miracle happened. Two months after that terrible conversation, the test showed two lines at last. The one Emily had waited years to see.
Perhaps it was because she let go of the fear. Perhaps Thomas’s certainty had thawed her dread.
He didn’t rush to tell his mother. Emily wished to, but knew it was too soon. Only when the bump was undeniable did they share the news.
Margaret sobbed. Begged forgiveness. Promised never to meddle again. The boy was born strong and healthy, and in time, she became a doting grandmother. Yet between her and Emily, the distance remained—silent, icy.
Emily could forgive much. But not being erased. Not the attempt to take her husband. Her love. Her hope. Her life.
Some things—you never forget.