22October2025
Dear Diary,
I still feel the dampness of the test results clenched in my wife’s fist that morning. The thin paper was slick with sweat, and the waiting room at the community health centre in Whitby was so crowded I could barely move.
MrsEthel Whitfield! a nurse shouted, her voice echoing off the beige walls.
Ethel rose, walked into the consulting room. DrHannah Clarke, a stout woman with weary eyes, took the folder from her and flicked through the pages without a flicker of expression.
Have a seat, she said, then glanced indifferently at the results.
Everything looks normal, but I suggest you bring your husband in for a checkup.
Ethels face went as cold as a November breeze. Victor? But hes
***
Back at home, my motherinlaw, Margaret, was hacking cabbage for a stew, her knife moving as if she were slicing through enemies.
So, love, any news? she asked without looking up.
I’m fine, Ethel muttered, taking off her coat.
Then why? Margaret finally lifted her eyes, a hint of alarm flashing across them.
My husband needs a medical examination.
The knife froze midair. Margaret stiffened like a taut rope.
What nonsense! My son is perfectly healthy. Those doctors dont know a thing. In my day women gave birth without any tests.
Ethel slipped into the living room. On the sofa lay two socksone navy, one charcoal. She absentmindedly gathered them and tossed them into the laundry basket. Over three years of marriage those mismatched socks had become a metaphor for our lives: scattered, never quite matching.
Victor returned late, his shoulders slumped.
Whats with the funeral face? he muttered, dropping into his favorite armchair.
Victor, we need to talk.
What about?
She handed him the papers. He skimmed them, then flung them onto the coffee table.
And then?
You need to get examined.
Why now? Victor leapt up, pacing the room. Im a healthy bloke! Look at me!
He did look the partbroadshouldered, dark hair thick as a hedge. Yet health isnt always visible.
Victor, please
Enough! he barked. If you dont want children, just say so! Why all this drama with doctors?
The sound of slippers scuffing the kitchen floor drifted in. Margaret was lurking in the doorway, her breathing loud enough to mark every second.
I want children more than anything, Ethel whispered.
Then why none? Are you hiding something? Have you had an abortion?
The accusation hit like a punch. Ethel recoiled.
How could you?
How could I? Three years together and no result! And now these doctors tell me I He stopped, fists clenched.
The door burst open. Margaret stormed in like a tank.
Victor, dont listen to her! Its all because youre idle. Work more, stop gallivanting to the doctors.
Ethel stared at her husband, who turned toward the window.
Victor, do you really think I
I dont know what to think, he rasped through clenched teeth. One thing I know: a healthy man never goes to the doctor.
Margaret nodded triumphantly.
Exactly, son. Its not a mans business to be roaming hospitals.
Inside, something snapped in Ethel, a taut string finally breaking.
Fine, she said evenly.
The next day felt like a battlefield. Margaret found fault in everything: salt overspilled, pot not fully rinsed, dust on the dresser. Ethel clenched her teeth and kept silent.
Maybe you shouldnt stay at home at all? the motherinlaw jabbed over dinner. Get a job instead of fretting over doctors.
Victor chewed his mince pie, eyes down.
I am working, Ethel reminded him.
Three days a week isnt work, its a hobby.
What does my work have to do with this?
It has everything to do with it! My son is fine, yet you want to make him look ill. When there are no children, the woman is to blamealways has been!
Ethel rose, her legs wobbling.
Whats wrong with you? Margaret asked, astonished. Youve just eaten and youre already fleeing?
Im tired, Ethel whispered.
Tired? From what? Three days a week isnt much of a load!
Victor finally lifted his gaze, a flicker of pity passing through, but he said nothing.
That night I lay awake listening to Victors snore. It used to be comforting, a sign that a loved one was close. Now it grated on my nerves. How had I never noticed his stubbornness before?
Morning came and I packed a few things into an old sports duffel: a couple of dresses, some underwear, my makeup bag.
Where are you off to? Margaret asked from the kitchen doorway, a mug in hand.
To Grans.
For how long?
I dont know.
Victor emerged from the shower, spotted the duffel.
Ethel, whats this?
Just what you see.
Youre serious?
What else? You wont get examined, my mother blames me for everything. What am I doing here?
He stepped closer, voice low.
Dont be foolish. Where will you go?
To Grans Faye.
To that tiny cottage? Its only a few miles away!
Its cramped, but Im not angry.
Margaret snorted.
Fine, let her go. Shell see how good it was here before.
Victor shot a furious glance at his mother, but said nothing.
I turned to the door with my duffel.
Ethel! Victor called.
I looked back. He stood in the hallway, hair still damp, looking bewildered.
When will you be back?
When you finally see a doctor.
The door slammed shut behind me.
Gran Faye yawned at the sight of me and my bag.
Ethel, love, whats happened?
Ive had a row with Victor. Can I stay with you?
Of course, dear. Its a bit snug
Its all right, Gran.
Her flat was indeed tinyone bed, a table, two chairs, an ancient TVbut it was clean and smelled of vanilla, a scent from her constant baking.
Tell me everything, she said, setting the kettle on.
I poured out the whole tale. She nodded, her silver hair swaying.
Oh, love men are like that, proud as lions. Admitting somethings wrong feels like a death sentence to them.
Do I have to wait forever for him to finally see a doctor?
No, youve done the right thing by leaving. Let him think.
The first few days were quiet. I made a makeshift bed on a foldout sofa in the corner, helped Gran with chores, and ignored Victors calls.
Later, Gran complained of chest pain. An ambulance rushed her to the hospital.
Dont worry, dear, she whispered as they wheeled her away. Im old, things happen.
She recovered well. I visited daily with homecooked meals and updates.
Hows Victor? Gran asked one afternoon.
Nothing much. Hes called a couple of times, shouting into the phone.
Did you answer?
The first time, yes. The second, no. Whats the point of hearing the same complaints?
Has he finally gone to the doctor?
Unlikely.
In the hospital corridor I nearly collided with a young doctor in a white coat, blond hair, kind eyes.
Excuse me, I said.
No problem. Who are you looking for?
My grandmother, in ward7.
Oh, you mean MrsFaye? He smiled. Denis Iggins, cardiologist.
Its a pleasure, DrIggins.
He reassured me that Gran would be fine, though age was a factor. I watched his steady hands, the tidy nails, the confidence they exuded.
Thank you for your care, I said.
He lingered, offering to talk more. From then on I made it a point to arrive early, hoping to see him again.
One evening Gran teased, The doctors curious if youll be here tomorrow.
Curious? I asked.
Yes! He keeps asking, Hows your granddaughter doing? Hes a good sort and single.
I flushed.
Gran, what are you on about
Come on, youre practically free. That Victor of yours
Im married.
Ha!
A week later Denis was transferred to another ward. On his last day he approached me in the corridor.
Ill miss you, he said simply.
Ill miss you too, I admitted.
He handed me his business card.
If you ever need anything or just a chat.
Our fingers brushed.
Thank you.
And youre very beautiful, though a touch sad. I hope it passes someday.
Gran was discharged and grew stronger, yet I still feared leaving her alone.
Victors calls variedsometimes I hung up, other times I answered. The last time he shouted into the receiver, calling me a spoiled girl. I slammed the phone down and never lifted it again.
A month later a stranger called:
Ethel? This is Deniss mother. He gave me your number
Is something wrong?
No, just that his birthday is tomorrow and hed love to see you. Could you come?
I hesitated, but Gran, listening at the doorway, waved me on.
Go on, love! When was the last time you had fun?
His birthday was a delight. Denis was attentive without being overbearing. As I left, he said, Id like to see you again. May I?
Yes, I whispered.
We began seeing each other, cautiously, gently. He never pried, never demanded explanationsjust stood by me. Sometimes I spent the night at his flat.
Then, unexpectedly, I discovered I was pregnant.
Will you marry me? Denis asked when I told him.
Yes, I laughed, tears of joy spilling over.
A year later I pushed a pram along the park lane. Denis walked beside me, cracking jokes. Our son, Milo, snoozed in his stroller.
Victor and Margaret appeared on the path, frozen as statues. I kept my pace, head held high, feeling every sting of their regret. In Victors eyes I saw the full weight of pain, remorse, and understanding.
Margaret tugged Victors sleeve.
Lets go, Victor.
He stood still, staring at the stroller, at the contented face of Denis, at the life Id built. He finally grasped that his choices had consequences, but it was already too late.
Looking back, I realise the hardest lesson of all: you cannot force another to see their own flaws; all you can do is choose the path that heals you, even if it means walking away from those you once loved.
