Chapter 16
Chapter sixteen
Terry
Amy and I sit in the doctor’s waiting room, not speaking. This appointment wasn’t my idea; we’re here because she begged me. The day after I stormed out of our home, she came to me and asked to make a final appointment at the fertility clinic. One last time. Again.
“Maybe I was too hasty,” she said. “Perhaps only agreeing to one round of IVF was short-sighted.”
I’d shrugged.
Then she begged, and it broke my heart watching her on her knees, apologizing for what she said. Apologizing for being unable to give me a child.
Her willingness to try again should’ve come as a relief, her desperation to mend the cracks in our marriage.
But all it did was highlight that she was doing this for me, or out of fear of what may happen next.
Either way, guilt and hope wrestled deep in my soul, ripping each other apart.
Ultimately, hope won. So, we made the appointment, and now, here we are.
Dr. Hughes appears in front of us, but neither of us notices him with our eyes trained on the floor.
“Mr. and Mrs. Trodden,” he says, and we jump with surprise.
“Follow me.” He leads us to his office and invites us to take a seat.
“How can I help you both?” he asks. His gaze moves between us, waiting for one of us to speak.
I don’t even know what she expects. We never discussed it beyond booking the time slot, and we’re hardly talking in general. The silence has taken up residence in our home, holding all the words we should say.
What I overheard her tell Trey at the gym still stings. But the worst part of it is knowing it was true. I’m angry at her for saying it, but furious at myself for letting life happen the way it has.
I wait for Amy to take the lead; this was her choice, though I’m not sure either of us are fully here. She clears her throat audibly.
“Thank you for seeing us again, doctor,” she says, her voice meek. “We.” She pauses. “I wanted to speak to you again and discuss a further round of IVF.” He sits slightly straighter in his chair and takes a breath. “I want to understand our chances if we decide to try again.”
He visibly steels himself before speaking. “I’ll be honest,” he replies, “the chances of you conceiving are slim. According to the statistics, I would say less than one percent.”
“Oh,” Amy stammers and peeks at me from under her tear-filled lashes.
I say nothing. There’s nothing to say. Her eyes search my face for something.
Comfort, maybe. Support, for sure. But I have nothing to give.
The unfairness of it all knocks any humanity from my core.
Blocking out the reality that, with his words, our marriage has died.
“Mrs. Trodden, I would be surprised if the NHS would agree to the second round of treatment. I suspect your only option is to pay privately, but as I said, the odds are low of it being successful.”
“Thank you for your honesty,” I mutter as I stand and walk out of the room. I can’t listen to another man tell me that my dream is over. That what I wanted my entire life isn’t going to happen. The situation is crystal clear.
Moments later, Amy follows behind me at a run. She takes my hand, and we walk out of the clinic without looking back. Together… but thousands of miles apart.
That evening, we sit at the dinner table pushing pasta around our plates. The silence is deafening. “I want to try,” I tell her. “I want to have another round.” She peeks up at me, her eyes wide as she listens. “I can’t imagine not being a father, Amy. I need to have a child.”
My plea sounds desperate even to my own ears. And it is. But if I let go of my wish of fatherhood, what else is left for me? I’ll be a shell with no way of filling the void.
All day, one thought has chewed through me. I can’t walk away from this dream. Becoming a father is non-negotiable.
“We can’t afford it,” she argues.
“We’ll get a loan,” I challenge. “What’s another few thousand pounds of debt?”
“No,” she whispers, “I can’t go through it again with such poor odds. My heart can’t take it. I’ll go insane. It will break me, Terry. You can’t ask me to go through this.”
I slam my hands on the table. “Amy,” I growl, “we must try again.” Desperation makes you say crazy things, and I sound like a bastard. I’m being one, but I can’t help it. Every pushback from her is another bolt on the door.
She shakes her head.
“I deserve another chance. My sperm is good; it could happen if you would bloody try. One more chance is all I’m asking you for. I deserve one fucking miracle in my life.”
The venom spills from my lips, ugly and raw.
My hatred for myself rising with each syllable.
I know my wife is the one who carried the strain of the injections, the hormones, the failure, but right now, all I see is my future shrinking.
I hear myself bargaining with statistics, wishing that fate would give me one last roll of the dice.
“Terry, please. I’ve made my decision,” she mumbles. “The answer is no. We need to move on from this, or there will always be one more attempt. One more try. We need to step off the hamster wheel and accept our lot.
“Today I was praying for a miracle. That they’d made a mistake. That we had a chance. We don’t.”
My throat locks. Words refuse to come. She’s already done. The calm way she says it only makes my panic explode. It hits harder than a scream. I won’t accept that this is it. My life won’t end here because of someone else. Even if it is Amy.
I push my chair back. It scrapes noisily across the floor.
“Fine,” I snap, rising and storming out of the front door.
I can’t stay here. I need to clear my head.
I need to put distance between us. Because if I stay, I’ll say something I can’t take back.
And I’ve said enough already. The hallway feels warmer than our apartment; maybe that’s all that’s left between us—hope frozen in pain.
Darkness falls as I pace the damp London streets.
The icy wind penetrates my thin shirt, causing goosebumps on my skin.
Thrusting my hands into my jeans pockets, I rummage around for some money.
Normally, a crumpled note can be found hidden and forgotten in the folds of fabric.
My luck holds, and I pull out a grubby twenty-pound note.
I don’t know where I’m going, only that I can’t turn back.
A small pub sits across the street. It’s narrow compared to the larger properties on either side, with a single door and one small window on the shop front.
A sign with the name Barry’s hangs above the entrance, the letter A askew, dangling by a nail.
Deciding I need to find some solace, I march toward the front door. Tonight, I’m going to drown my sorrows.
Inside, the pub is cozy and quaint with a heavy wooden bar and red velvet high stools.
Around the edge of the room are small booths to seat four people, while on the walls hang pub memorabilia and music records.
The heating is on, and the warmth hits me as soon as I walk in.
A woman, who looks to be in her fifties, stands behind the bar pouring pints. She smiles warmly as I approach.
“Good evening, what can I get you?” she says. Her lips are thick and painted a deep purple. Her black hair is piled on top of her head, and she’s wearing a tight black dress with a low neckline that leaves nothing to the imagination.
“Just a pint, please,” I say, and she frowns.
“Tough day?” she asks.
“You could say that.”. She gives me a sympathetic smile and passes me my drink.
“Thanks.” I turn and walk toward the furthest booth, sliding into the dim space and sipping my beer slowly.
My phone buzzes in my pocket again, probably with another message.
Amy. She’s been calling and texting constantly since I left. I don’t want to speak to her.
She’s still fighting for us, whatever version of us that is left to salvage. I’m here, hiding in a pub. The shame burns low in my stomach, but not enough to make me go home.
After opening the internet app on my phone, I type in the website address I’ve been frequenting more and more in recent weeks.
. They offer a matchmaking service for people who want to have children but have been unable to.
Using scientific data and personality testing, they match you with a suitable mate, and the rest is up to you.
I read through the never-ending success stories.
Page after page of happy couples who trusted these scientists to find them a partner to have a child with.
They pose together with a baby in their arms or a toddler at their feet, every smiling photo a verdict that we didn’t try hard enough.
I push away thoughts of Amy waiting at home and keep scrolling.
To be included in the database, you must undertake full fertility testing to prove you offer someone the chance of a family.
I paid the membership fee two weeks ago to browse the profiles of available women looking for a father for their children.
Luckily, I still have my emergency credit card that Amy never checks.
I scroll through the profiles one by one.
Photographs of middle-aged women posing for the camera fill my phone screen.
Some look wholesome and honest, others like they’re posing on Tinder.
With each one, there is a short biography detailing their forename, age, hobbies, and location.
In London, there are reams to choose from.
Hundreds of lonely women, desperate to have a child and their time running out.
A woman with a short brown bob and huge green eyes glides onto the screen. She’s wearing a simple floral dress and smiles kindly at the camera. Abigail, forty-two, from London. Her hobbies include baking and walks in the country. I click on her profile and read on.
After a twenty-year career as a marketing executive, I woke up one morning and realized my life was incomplete. I had the house, the car, and the job, but no family. In that moment, I decided to make a change.
The words blur, and I blink—hard. My grip tightens on the phone as if steadying myself.
The next day, I handed in my notice at work, put my house on the market to downsize and struck out on my own in freelance social media management. My career is sorted, my home is perfect, and now all I need is a special person and a child to share it with.
Her bio is everything I want to read. Everything Amy once promised me but now can’t give me. The realization makes my chest ache and my throat close, but still, my thumb hovers over the contact button. I tell myself it’s only a message. I know it isn’t.
Without thinking more, I press send and type a short introductory email to this woman.
As the word sent appears on my screen, my heart sinks, because now, I have to go home and face the reality I’ve been dodging for months.
The life I have and the life I want are not compatible. To have one, I must forgo the other.
Upon my return to our apartment, Amy is sitting on the sofa staring at the TV screen. A romantic comedy is playing on low, laughter echoing where there should be conversation.
“Amz,” I say, “we need to talk. Can you turn the TV off, please?”
“Not tonight, Terry,” she whispers. I nod and go to the spare room. I don’t want to have this conversation tonight either.
The following evening, I return from work to an empty apartment.
Amy won’t be home for an hour. This is my chance.
I retrieve a suitcase from the hall cupboard and carry it to our bedroom.
I pull the wardrobe doors open wide and begin to lift clothes off the rack, considering what to take now, and what to leave until later.
Lost in thought and focused on my task, I don’t hear her arriving home. When I turn around, she’s standing in the doorway watching me with wide eyes and a terrified expression.
“Where are you going?” she asks. Her voice cracks halfway through, her fear kicking in. I know her panic when I hear it.
“I need to leave, Amz,” I reply.
“For how long?”
“Forever.” I look away and return to rummaging in a drawer for my final necessities. “You’re leaving me?” she asks, her voice strained with emotion. She swallows, audibly trying to control her tears. “Is there someone else? Am I not enough?”
Her question splits me open. Of course she’s enough. She’s amazing. But she can’t be the one to piece me back together. For all her strengths, she can’t fix this.
My heart aches. She was my world. But worlds change, and people fracture. Ours started long before now. Back then, I thought I had time, we had time. Maybe I should have fought harder, like she’s fighting now. But maybe I should have been brave enough to walk away.
I turn and walk toward her, then take both her hands in mine.
“There’s no one else, but there will be.
” Tears fill her eyes, but I soldier on.
I need to be honest. “Having a child is non-negotiable for me. I need to be a father, and I’m running out of time.
As much as I want it to, it’s not going to happen with you, and I have to move on.
It’s the only way for me to realize my dream. ”
“But,” she stammers, “you’re my soulmate.”
Her grip tightens on my hands, and I pull them from her then take a decisive step back. She moves toward me, and I hold my hand up in protest.
“No,” I bark, sharper than I intend.
She recoils. My rebuke hurts me as much as it hurts her, but I can’t stop. I need to make this final before I lose my nerve.
“I can’t waste any more time on our marriage. You have your life and dreams all figured out. Mine are reduced to dust. I’m leaving, and I’m filing for divorce.”
My resolve wavers for a moment. I witness her heart break in front of me, and mine shatters with it. I’ve loved her since long before we were together. I love her now. But love isn’t enough. Not anymore. This is something that must happen.
I won’t become the man who resents his wife on his deathbed for something outside her control. The way I’ve justified this to myself is being cruel to be kind. Or perhaps just selfish. Either way, I’m taking this step.
“Now, I’m leaving. I won’t be back. Move out of my way.” I zip my suitcase closed and lift it from the bed. She retreats from my space and goes to sit where the suitcase once was.
I march to the doorway and take one final look at my old life. My beloved wife sits on the edge of our marital bed and sobs into her hands.
Guilt, pain, and fear hit, but if I don’t take this step, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. I whisper an apology she can’t hear and close the chapter with the door.