7May2024
Today the whole world seemed to shrink into the damp, fluorescent-lit hallway of the local NHS clinic. I watched Evelyn Parker, my motherinlaw, hunched over a chopping board, her knife hacking away at a pot of cabbage like she were felling trees. She didnt look up when she asked, Whats the news, love?
Mabels fine, I muttered, taking off my coat. She clutched a crumpled folder in her fists; the paper was damp with sweat. The nurse called out, Mabel Hartley! and she shuffled into the consultation room. The doctora plump woman with tired eyestook the folder, skimmed the pages, and said, Sit down, love. She glanced over the results with a detached stare.
Everythings normal. Have your husband checked.
A chill ran down my spine. Have *I*?
Back home, the kitchen smelled of simmering stew. Evelyns voice floated over the bubbling pot. So, my dear, any news? she asked without turning.
Mabels all right, I replied, shrugging off my coat.
She lifted her eyes, a flash of worry in them. Why would you say that? Does your husband need a checkup?
The knife paused above the board. Evelyn straightened, as rigid as a taut rope. Nonsense! My sons perfectly healthy. Its those doctorsalways poking around where they dont belong. In my day women gave birth without any of those tests.
I slipped into the living room. On the sofa lay two socksone navy, one black. I absentmindedly gathered them and tossed them into the laundry basket. Over three years of marriage those mismatched socks had become a little metaphor for us: separate, never quite a pair.
Vitali trudged in late, his face a mask of exhaustion. Whats with the funeral look? he grumbled, flopping into his armchair.
Mabel, we need to talk, I said.
What about?
I placed the papers on the coffee table. He flicked them aside.
Then what?
You need to get examined.
Why on earth? he bolted upright, pacing the room. Im a healthy bloke! Look at me!
He was broadshouldered, darkhaired, the picture of vigor. Yet health isnt always visible.
Please, Vitali
He snapped, Enough! If you dont want children, just say so! Why all this theatre with doctors?
From the kitchen came the scuff of slippers. Evelyn lingered in the doorway, breathing so loudly I could hear every inhale.
I want children more than anything, I whispered.
Then why arent there any? Have you been hiding something? Abortions? Anything? Her words struck like a slap.
I recoiled. How could
And how am I supposed to? Three years together, zero results! And now the doctors tell me Im? He clenched his fists, unable to finish.
The door burst open. Evelyn stormed in like a bulldozer. Vitali, dont listen to her! Its all because youre idle. If you worked more, you wouldnt be running to doctors all the time.
Vitali turned toward the window, his back to me.
I dont know what to think, he snapped. All I know is a man whos fit doesnt chase hospitals.
Evelyn nodded triumphantly. Exactly, son. This isnt a mans businesswasting time in hospitals.
Something inside me snapped, like a stretched string finally breaking. I kept my voice steady.
Fine, I said.
The next day felt like a battlefield. Evelyn found fault in every tiny detail: salt overspilled, a pot not rinsed, dust on the dresser. I clamped my teeth shut.
Maybe you shouldnt be staying at home at all, she sneered over dinner. Get a job instead of fussing over doctors.
Vitali chewed his meatball in silence.
I work, I reminded her.
Three days a week isnt work, its a hobby, she snapped. What does my son have to do with your illness? When there are no children, its always the womans fault!
I rose from the table, legs wobbling.
Whats wrong with you? Eat and then run off? she demanded.
Im tired, I whispered.
Tired? From what? Three days a week of workwhat load is that?
Vitali finally looked up, a flicker of pity in his eyes, but said nothing.
That night I lay awake listening to his snore. It used to be comforting, a sign that a loved one was near. Now it grated on me. How had I never noticed his stubbornness before?
In the morning I packed a battered old rucksack: a couple of dresses, some underwear, my makeup bag.
Where are you off to? Evelyn asked, coffee cup in hand.
To Grans.
For how long?
I dont know.
Vitali emerged from the shower, his hair slick with water.
Whats that? he asked, eyeing the rucksack.
Its what you see.
Youre serious?
What else? You wont go to the doctor, Mum thinks Im to blame for everything. Why stay here?
He stepped closer, voice low.
Dont be daft. Where will you go?
To Gran Fayes cottage.
That tiny shack? Its only a mile away!
Itll be cramped, but Im not angry.
Evelyn snorted. Good. Let her go. Shell see how nice it was for her when we were young.
Vitali shot his mother a sharp look but said nothing.
I slung the rucksack over my shoulder and headed for the door.
Vitali! he called.
I turned. He stood in the hallway, hair still damp, looking bewildered.
When will you be back?
When you finally see a doctor.
The door slammed behind me.
Gran Faye gasped when she saw me, rucksack in hand.
Darling, whats happened?
Weve had a row with Vitali. Can I stay here?
Of course, love. Its a bit snug
The flat was indeed tinyone bed, a table, two chairs, an ancient TVbut it was clean and smelled of vanilla; Gran loved to bake.
Tell me whats wrong, she said, putting the kettle on.
I poured out everything. She listened, nodding slowly.
Oh, love men are like that. Proud as a peacock. Admitting somethings off feels like admitting death.
Should I keep waiting for him to mature enough to see a doctor?
No. You did the right thing by leaving. Let him think it over.
The first few days passed quietly. I settled on a foldout sofa in the corner, helped Gran around the house. Vitali called now and then, but I let it ring.
Later Gran complained of chest pains. An ambulance whisked her away.
Dont worry, dear, she whispered as the paramedics lifted her. Im old, this happens.
In hospital, Gran improved. I visited daily, bringing homemade soup and news.
Hows Vitali? she asked one afternoon.
Not much. Hes shouted at me on the phone a couple of times.
Did you answer?
Once. The second time I hung up. Whats the point of hearing the same rant?
Maybe hell finally go to the doctor?
Unlikely.
In the ward corridor I nearly collided with a young doctor in a crisp white coat, lighthaired and kindeyed.
Excuse me, I said.
No trouble at all. Who are you looking for?
My gran, in Ward7.
Oh, MrsFaye! Right this way, he smiled. Im DrDenis Clarke, cardiologist.
We chatted briefly about Grans condition. His hands were steady, nails neatly trimmedhands that seemed built for care.
Thank you for looking after her, I said.
He lingered, and over the next days I found myself arriving early, hoping for another glimpse.
One evening Gran, with a mischievous grin, said, DrClarke is curious whether youll be joining us tomorrow.
Im curious? I replied.
Exactly! He asks, Hows your granddaughter doing? Hes a good ladand single.
I blushed.
Gran, what are you saying
Its obvious, love. Your Vitali isnt the only bloke in town.
I’m married, I protested.
She scoffed.
A week later DrClarke was transferred to another ward. On his last day he approached me in the corridor.
Ill miss you, he said simply.
So will I, I admitted.
He handed me his card.
If you ever need anything or just a chat.
Our fingers brushed.
Thanks.
And one more thing he hesitated. Youre very beautiful, but also very sad. I hope that changes someday.
Gran was discharged and grew stronger, yet I still fretted about leaving her alone.
Vitalis calls became rarer; sometimes I answered, sometimes I let them go to voicemail. The last time he shouted into the phone, calling me a whining girl. I slammed the receiver and never lifted it again.
A month later a strangers voice rang through.
MsHartley? This is MrsClarkes mother. He gave me your number
Is anything wrong?
No, just that his birthday is tomorrow and hed love to see you. Could you come?
I hesitated, but Gran, having overheard, waved me on.
Go on, love! When was the last time you had fun?
His birthday was a pleasant affair. Denis was attentive but never overbearing. When I left, he said, Id like to see you again. May I?
May I, I whispered.
We began seeing each other slowly, gently. He never pressed for explanations, just stayed close. Sometimes I stayed over.
Then, unexpectedly, I discovered I was pregnant.
Will you marry me? Denis asked when I told him.
Of course, I laughed, tears of joy spilling.
A year later I pushed a pram along the park promenade. Denis walked beside me, cracking jokes. Our son, Milo, cooed in his sleep.
Vitali and Evelyn Parker appeared on the path, frozen as statues.
I kept my stride, head held high, feeling the sting of their gaze. In Vitalis eyes I read the whole of his regret, his sorrow, his understanding.
Evelyn tugged at Vitalis sleeve.
Come on, love.
He stood still, watching the stroller, the happy couple, the life I had built. He finally understood, but it was far too late.
Looking back, I realise that silence can scream louder than any accusation, and that sometimes walking away is the only way to hear your own heart.
Lesson learned: bravery isnt just about standing your ground; its also about knowing when to step away.
