Chapter 6
Chapter six
Amy
It's a rare Sunday morning together. Neither of us has work. That means a whole twenty-four hours with my husband and no interruptions. No alarms, no gym, no customers. Just each other. Utter bliss.
Terry’s leg hooks over mine as we watch crappy morning TV wrapped in blankets. A man in a crisp white shirt is stirring chicken curry in a pot. “If that was me,” Terry says, “that sauce would be splattered down my shirt already.” I giggle because it’s so true.
“You would definitely be wearing the food by now.” His lips brush my temple. “This is such a treat, lying here with you. I love having nowhere to be.”
“I miss you, Amz,” he whispers into my hair, and my chest aches.
“I’m still here,” I tell him. But even as I say it, the words feel like a lie. Part of me is at the gym, planning classes and considering our next promotion. The guilt of that truth sits heavy on my heart, but I don’t know how to shake it.
He sighs softly. When I look at him, he closes his eyes and lays his head back on the sofa.
“Terry, what is it? What’s wrong?” He shakes his head, as if not wanting to continue the conversation. “Darling, talk to me, please. I’m worried now.”
He moves me to the side before rising to his feet and pacing the room, his fingers twisting together nervously.
A prickling sensation nips the back of my neck.
I rub it to relieve the tension. “The thing is…” He drops to his knees, strong fingers at my waist. “Have you thought any more about the treatment?”
“Treatment?” I stutter, blindsided by the unexpected subject. My natural defenses fire, and I step out of his grip. “You mean the fertility treatment?”
“What other fucking treatment could I be talking about?” he snaps, standing abruptly and beginning his trek around the room once more. “The gym’s taken over everything. Our dreams, our time. We’re not getting any younger, Amz. If we’re going to do this, we need to do it now.”
“Darling,” I say. “It’s been three years since the IVF offer…” I trail off, not knowing what to say.
“We didn’t go ahead with the treatment because Bex needed you. You said that your head couldn’t cope with any more complications. Now is our chance. Our chance to be parents.” The look he gives me begs me to understand his position on this.
His eyes are spilling over with hope. The kind that used to make me love him a little more. But now, it only pours dread on top of the pain of what I couldn’t give him. The fear that I’ll fail again. That I’ll fail him.
“We’re too old to become parents now. Our child would be in their teens, and you would be pushing seventy. We missed our chance, and life worked out differently. I can’t go back to the insanity of trying to get pregnant. It took too much of a toll. Can we not just enjoy the life we have?”
“The life we have?” he barks. “The life you have, you mean. It’s all right for you, swanning around with your own business. Spending night after night training with your bodybuilding friends. I want my wife back. I want us to have a life together, not just be the man waiting at home for you.”
“Well, fucking do something with your life,” I scream. “Stop pissing around pretending to be twenty. It’s your own fucking fault you’re still flipping burgers at half a century, Terry Trodden,” I snarl, venom dripping from every word. “Another victim of failure in the bright lights of the city.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I want to swallow them again. I wish I could take them back, even though they’re true. His anger collapses, immediately replaced with pain. Shame claws in my throat, screaming to find something soothing to say. I have nothing.
We both fall silent, staring at each other. Then he turns and storms out the door, banging it shut behind him.
The echo of the impact feels like something final.
I sit, heart shattered, wondering how two people who wanted so much together can end up oceans apart.
The emptiness that follows is worse than the shouting, but sadly familiar.
It’s the kind that seeps into your pores and stays there.
Talking has become a dangerous game in our home; each of us wondering who will be the first to crack.
On Valentine’s Day 2007, my decision to not have children of my own wavered and changed.
As I held my nephew in my arms, my soon-to-be husband wrapped his arms around me.
We were both held fast by the tiny blue eyes we looked down upon.
Liam was a beautiful baby with a shock of black hair and clear skin.
In that moment, at the age of thirty-four, I decided I wanted to be a mother.
Back then, it had been a revelation, a shared dream neither of us ever expected to be achievable.
We whispered names to each other in the middle of the night.
His laugh still rings in my ears from when I told him I wanted twins.
Today’s battlefield is nothing like the heaven we planned for.
Our family has become our nemesis that will never be beaten.
Terry and I were due to get married in May. Bex demanded three months to get slimmed back down into her dress. Our wedding was a small affair at a local registry office, then a meal with family. That night, we started trying to complete our own family.
Ignorant as I was, I assumed we would stop using protection and I would get knocked up. No problem. Women get pregnant all the time. It’s the most natural process in the world. Not for us.
A year down the line, only one line appeared on every pregnancy test. Don’t worry, friends said. It will happen. Just keep doing the deed, and the baby will come.
By the end of our second year of trying, I was charting my cycles, taking supplements, and buying every conceivable aid to get pregnant. We would have sex, and I would lie with my legs up against the headboard to help the swimmers reach their destination. It didn’t work.
Terry and I both underwent testing, but no issues were found. Unexplained infertility, the doctor said. Reduce your stress levels. Eat healthier. Relax. It’s the most natural process in the world, they repeated. Come back in two years if you haven’t conceived by then.
Time passed, and no baby, then Bex was diagnosed with cancer. My life went on the back burner, and my role of being my sister’s support was implemented. Anytime Terry tried to talk to me about kids, I shot him down. Now, over ten years on from when we first started trying, we are still childless.
I try to convince myself it doesn’t hurt anymore.
That enough time has passed that I’ve made peace with it.
But some nights, when Terry snores softly beside me, I picture the child we were never blessed with.
The baby who’s never existed except in my head.
Every giggle, every tiny finger, is so real I can almost touch it.
I tell myself they were meant to be mine. And then I remind myself that a dream is all it is. You’re not owed the life you create in your mind.
Terry appears home as darkness falls over the city. He looks rough but sober, which is a surprise.
“Where have you been?” I ask. He doesn’t look at me, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “Terry, do you want to talk about this now?”
“I suppose,” he mumbles like a petulant schoolboy. “But I’m guessing you’ve already made the decision for us.”
“Where have you been?” I ask again.
“Walking,” he says.
“Where?”
“Around. I needed to clear my head. Perhaps I’m an idiot, but I thought you still wanted to try.” He sniffs back tears. “Amz, I want to be a father. I want to have a child of my own.”
“We haven’t been blessed with one,” I whisper. “I can’t go back to that crazy person I was. You need to let this go. A child isn’t in our future.”
“Please. Let’s have one more consultation. We haven’t spoken to the fertility consultant in years. We owe it to ourselves to try.” His voice is so quiet, I’m not sure if he’s speaking to me or himself. “Just one more appointment before we put this to bed.”
“Okay,” I say, resigned. “One last appointment, then we’re done.” He gives me a soft smile, then walks toward me and takes my face between his hands. His lips drop to mine, and he kisses me.
He catches me off guard with the softness.
It’s been a long time since I felt he wanted me for only me, not for the family I could give him.
The warmth feels good, but underneath, I’m exhausted.
Exhausted with hoping that this time, we will conceive.
Exhausted from pretending I still believe in our shared dream. I buried it years ago.
Taking his hand, I lead him to our bedroom.
We stand in front of the mirrored-glass wardrobes, side by side.
I lift my top over my head and wriggle out of my leggings.
Not having been anywhere today, I’m not wearing underwear.
Terry undresses too. We stand naked, surveying each other in the mirror.
The difference between our bodies is startling, mine rigid in comparison to his.
My husband has aged while I have strengthened.
I understand his words about missing his wife.
Now, I’m a different woman both physically and emotionally.
He looks at me like I’m a stranger. Someone he used to know, but can’t quite place. The silence stretches, and I need to fill the void. Stop the words neither of us are comfortable to hear before they pass either of our lips. So, I take charge the only way I know how. With my body.
“Lie down,” I purr, and he does as I instruct.
As I touch him, my body reverts to autopilot, giving him the pleasure I know he craves.
But my mind is somewhere between now, yesterday, and what’s to come.
Calculating the new future I only agreed to moments ago to keep my husband content.
We’ll go to another appointment. Maybe agreeing is easier than fighting.
Easier than admitting I’ve already given up.
My fingers slide around his hardening cock, angry and red.
It pulses in my grip, throbbing against soft flesh.
My jaw aches as I take him, the salt of his precum sharp on my tongue.
Sheer relief escapes between his teeth. A sound I’ve heard a thousand times before.
It used to be an aphrodisiac; now it’s another task on my list. “You like that, darling?” I mumble around him.
“Amz,” he murmurs. “Ride me. I want to be inside you. I need to shoot my load in that pretty pussy of yours.”
Once, his raw need for me would have sparked heat low in my belly. My lust would have matched his. Now, it reminds me of how far we’ve drifted. But I still move, because I don’t know how not to.
Releasing him from my mouth, I straddle him and rub my clit against his length. Pleasure builds between my legs, slick, prepared, and ready before I lower myself down.
We have been together so long, it’s like our bodies fit together seamlessly. I open, and he slides home. It’s easy. Our rhythm is instant.
Our bodies move from muscle memory rather than desire. But somewhere beneath the motions, there’s a whisper of something rawer. A flicker of what we were.
As I rock my hips, I pretend this is closeness, not comfort. My husband filling me was one of my happiest places. I wonder, could be again? We’ve always been connected, but here there’s no beginning or end. It’s just us, but I feel alone.
Sensation builds, and I ride him harder. Our bedroom fills with the echo of wet flesh colliding. My pussy clenches, my juices coating his dick. He grunts. His cock jerks, and his moan of release drowns out our movement.
Afterwards, we lie in each other’s arms, spent and calm. Our breathing slows together, synchronized once more. This is the closest I’ve felt to him in months, and that truth stings.
I snuggle in, wrapping my arms around his wide torso. He smells of sweat, sex, and home. For a minute, I pretend we are still the couple we were. The one who whispered late at night and kept their promises. Then reality returns, my heart quiets, somber.
“Thank you.” His nose skims my ear.
“For what?” I ask. “Riding you like my life depended on it?”
He chuckles and kisses my temple.
“For that too, but no, for agreeing to try again. To try for a family.”
The word family splinters the peace. In my mind, we already are a family, albeit a family of two. And yet, his version still has tiny toes and a dreamcatcher above the crib. Mine just has us. I wonder if that is enough anymore.
My heart breaks. I never agreed to try again. I agreed to an appointment with the doctor. Deep down, I know I have no intention of trying for a baby. Life is only getting back on track after Bex, and I’m happy to be me.
My business is blossoming. My body is blooming. The last thing I want is to jump back down the rabbit hole of infertility. But I lie in my husband’s arms and say nothing. Because saying something will rip open a wound that is still festering inside.