**An Honest Conversation**
I met Irene at a Spanish class. She was quiet, almost detached, with big grey eyes that seemed to hide an entire story. Being around her made me feel strong in a way I hadnt before.
She had a five-year-old son, Oliver, and was raising him alone. She never said much about Olivers father or her past marriage, just shrugged and muttered something about irreconcilable differences and how the first few years after the divorce had nearly broken her.
It didnt scare me off. Quite the opposite. The way she looked at Oliverwith such fierce, almost painful tendernessmade me want to be the fortress they could both lean on. And, well, I wanted kids of my own someday.
We got married a year and a half later. I rented a cottage in the Lake District, and under the skylight in the attic bedroom, I proposed. She laughed and cried at the same time, while Oliver clapped, not quite grasping the moment but basking in the happiness anyway.
That same night, lying in bed with the stars visible through the skylight, I finally said what Id been dreaming of:
*You know, itd be lovely if Oliver had a little brother or sister. Id really like that.*
Irene didnt answer. She just pressed closer and buried her face in my chest. I thought she was moved. That her silence meant yes.
We started *trying*or so I thought. I read up on fertility, bought her vitamins, enthusiastically planned how wed convert the spare room into a nursery. Irene nodded, smiled, but there was something tight in her expression. I put it down to nerves.
Then, on an ordinary Tuesday, everything fell apart. I was rummaging through the bathroom cabinet for toothpaste when I saw a blister pack peeking out of her cosmetics case. I Googled the name. Contraceptives.
For a moment, I refused to believe it. Maybe they were old, forgotten. But the expiry date was fine. And several pills were missing.
It felt like a punch to the gut. I stepped into the hallway and just stood there. Irene was at the kitchen table, helping Oliver with his maths homework.
*Irene?* My voice came out louder than I meant. *Whats this?*
I held out the packet. She looked up, and everything in her facethe fear, the guiltgave me the answer before she could.
*Are you taking these now?* I kept my tone steady, though I already knew.
She nodded, unable to meet my eyes. Her lashes trembled; she was fighting tears. Oliver, sensing the tension, froze, glancing between us.
*Why?* One word, heavy with hurt.
*You wouldnt understand,* she whispered, and then the tears came.
*Try me.*
We moved to the living room, sending Oliver off to play. Irene sat hunched, wringing her hands.
*I dont want another baby, James. I just dont.*
*But why?* My voice cracked. *You knew how much I wanted this! We *talked* about it! You couldve just said no! Why the act? The vitamins, the nursery planswhat was that for?*
*I wasnt lying!* She finally looked at me. *I just didnt argue.*
*Thats worse!* I stood, pacing. *I was making plans, getting excited, believing in it! And you were justsilently taking pills? Why, Irene? Do you think Id love my own child more than Oliver? I *adore* that boy!*
*Its not about Oliver!* Her voice was raw. *Its about *me*! I wont be left alone with a baby again. I wont be dependent. I wont go back to having no money, no rights, no say in my own life!*
*You dont want one at all? Or just not now?*
She dragged her hands over her face, wiping away tears and weakness alike.
*At all. You dont know what its likecounting every penny, begging for money like a charity case, being nothing but a nanny and a cook. I barely survived it with Oliver. Ate nothing but beans for weeks just to afford his fruit. I cant do it again. Not even with you. Im *terrified*.*
She went quiet, exhausted. And as I stood there, the pieces clicked. Her thriftiness, her fear of conflict, her insistence on keeping her own paycheckthese werent quirks. They were scars.
I sat opposite her. The anger drained away.
*Irene,* I said softly. *Im not *him*. Im not your ex.*
*I know,* she whispered. *But fear isnt logical. It just *is*.*
The next evening, I slid a debit card across the table.
*Its a joint account, but half of everything in there is yours. Spend it, save it, burn itI dont care. Its yours. So you know youll always have it.*
She stared at the card like it was a mirage.
*Why?* she asked, just as I had.
*So youre not afraid. So you stay with me because you *want* to, not because youve got no other choice.*
She took it, squeezed it in her palm, and noddeda tiny, fragile nod. It meant more than any grand promise.
But Id underestimated the depth of her fear.
The next evening, the flat was empty. A note on the kitchen table, in her neat handwriting:
*James, I need time. I cant think here. Weve gone to stay with Emily. Please dont callIm not ready to talk. Im sorry.*
My first reaction was fury. Running away *again*? Silence *again*? I rang herphone off. Sent messagesleft unread.
So I called Emily. Shed been Irenes friend since secondary school.
*Em, can I talk to her?* I kept my voice steady.
*Shes not ready, James,* Emily said, too carefully.
*This is ridiculous. Just hand her the phone!*
*Shes in no state. Youve no idea how bad she is.*
The anger flared again. *And how dyou think *I* feel? We talked it out! I *gave* her that card so she wouldnt be scared!*
*The cards a start,* Emily sighed. *But its a plaster on a bullet wound. You werent *listening* all those months. Just pushing your own dream. And the way you looked at her yesterdayshe cried all night. She thinks you hate her now.*
*I dont *hate* her! Im just* I stopped. I *had* been angry. Betrayed. But hate? Never.
*Give her time,* Emily said gently. *She didnt run from *you*. She ran from her own panic. Let her breathe.*
I waited. Two days of silence. On the third, I texted Emilynot Irene.
*Tell her Im not angry. I just want to know theyre safe. And that Im waiting.*
Half an hour later, Emily replied: *Olivers finethinks your Wi-Fis down, so you cant video call. Irenes complicated. But Ill pass it on.*
An hour after that, a message from Irene. Two words.
*Im okay. Waiting.*
Attached was a photo of Oliver building a Lego tower. That tiny, indifferent *waiting* was my lifeline. Not *leave me alone*just *waiting.* The door wasnt shut forever.
Emily was right. Time wasnt for *me* to cool offI already had. It was for her to outrun the panic, the primal fear of being trapped again. To believe that *waiting* meant she could come back.
She called two weeks later.
*James, I miss you. I want to come home. And Im ready to talk.*
*Im waiting!* I grinned. *Ill order pizza.*
We didnt talk about a baby that night. Or the next month. But we learned to trust each other againslowly, without lies or half-truths, with all our scars laid bare.
And maybe, one day, when her fear isnt as solid as that debit card in her purse, well talk about a second child.
But for nowhonestys enough.
