**An Honest Talk**
I met Irene at Spanish lessons. She was quiet, almost distant, with large grey eyes that seemed to hold entire stories inside them. Around her, I felt stronglike I could be her anchor.
She had a five-year-old son, Oliver, and she was raising him alone. She rarely spoke about the boys father or her past marriage, only mentioning once, in passing, that they “didnt see eye to eye” and that the first years after the divorce had been hard.
It didnt scare me. If anything, it drew me in. The way she looked at Oliverwith such fierce, almost painful tendernessmade me want to be the fortress where she could finally exhale. And besides, I wanted children of my own.
We married a year and a half later. I rented a cottage in the Lake District, and under the sloping attic roof, I proposed to her. She laughed and cried at the same time, while Oliver clapped, not fully understanding but swept up in the joy.
That night, lying in bed and staring at the stars through the skylight, I finally said what Id been dreaming of:
“You know, itd be wonderful if Oliver had a little brother or sister. I really want that.”
Irene didnt answer. She just pressed closer to me, burying her face against my chest. I thought she was moved. That her silence meant yes.
We started “trying.” I read articles about conception, bought her vitamins, enthusiastically discussed converting the spare room into a nursery. She nodded, smiledbut there was something strained in her smile. I told myself it was nerves.
Then, on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday, everything fell apart. I was searching the bathroom for spare toothpaste when I saw the blister pack poking out of her makeup bag. I Googled the name. Contraceptives.
At first, I didnt believe it. Maybe they were oldmaybe shed forgotten to throw them out. But the expiry date was fine. And several pills were missing.
It felt like a punch to the gut. I stepped into the hallway, frozen. Irene was at the kitchen table, helping Oliver with his homework.
“Irene?” My voice was too loud. “Whats this?”
I held out the packet. She looked up, and everything in her facethe fear, the panic, the shamegave me my answer.
“Youre taking these now?” I asked, forcing calm into my voice even though I already knew.
She nodded silently, unable to hold my gaze. Her lashes trembled; she was seconds from tears. Oliver, sensing the tension, went quiet, glancing between us.
“Why?” Just one word, carrying all my hurt.
“You wouldnt understand,” she whispered, tears spilling over.
“Try me.”
We moved to the living room, sending Oliver to his room. Irene sat hunched, rubbing her palms together.
“I dont want another child, Daniel. I dont.”
“But why?” My voice cracked. “You knew how much I wanted this! We talked about it! You couldve just said no! Why lie? Why the charade with vitamins and nursery plans?”
“I didnt lie!” she snapped, finally looking at me. “I just didnt argue.”
“Thats worse!” I stood, pacing. “I made plans, I was happy, I believed in us! And you were silent, taking pills! Why, Irene? Do you think Id love my own child more than Oliver? I already love him like hes mine!”
“Its not about Oliver!” Her voice was raw. “Its about me! I cant be alone with a baby again. I cant depend on someone like that. I wont go back to having no money, no rights, no voice!”
“You mean ever? Or just not now?”
She pressed her hands to her face, then dragged them down, wiping away tears and weakness together.
“Ever. You dont know what its likecounting every penny, begging for money like its charity, being needed only to change nappies and heat up dinners. I barely survived it, Daniel! Oliver and I lived on pasta so I could afford fruit for him! I cant do it again. Even with you. Im scared.”
She fell silent, drained. And as I stood there, her words echoed. Suddenly, everything made senseher thriftiness, her fear of conflict, her need for her own salary. Not quirks. Scars.
I sat across from her. The anger was gone.
“Irene,” I said quietly, “Im not him. Im not your ex.”
“I know,” she whispered. “But fear isnt logical. It just is.”
The next evening, I placed a debit card on the table.
“This is your account. Ill transfer half our savings into it every month. Your money. Only yours. Spend it, save it, burn it. But youll always know its there.”
She stared at the card.
“Why?” she asked, just as I had.
“So youre not afraid. So you stay with me because you want tonot because you have nowhere else to go.”
She took it, clutched it, and nodded. Just once. But it meant more than any vow.
Yet Id underestimated her fear.
The next night, the flat was empty. A note lay on the kitchen table in her neat handwriting:
*”Daniel, I need time. I cant think here. Weve gone to stay with Claire. Dont callIm not ready to talk. Im sorry.”*
Rage flared first. Running again! Silence again! I calledher phone was off. Sent messagesthey went unread.
So I called Claire. Irenes best friend since school.
“Claire, can I talk to her?” I kept my voice steady.
“Shes not ready, Daniel,” Claire said, too formal.
“This is childish! Just pass me the phone!”
“She cant. And I get it. You dont understand how broken she is right now.”
“Broken? What about me? We talked yesterday! I gave her the card so she wouldnt be afraid!”
“Thats a plaster on a bullet wound,” Claire sighed. “You didnt listen for months. Just pushed your own dreams. And yesterdaythe way you looked at her? She cried all night. She thinks you hate her now.”
“I dont hate her!” I faltered. Angry, betrayedbut hate? No.
“Give her time,” Claire 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 Clairenot Irene.
*”Tell her Im not angry. I just want to know theyre safe. Ill wait.”*
Claire replied: *”Olivers finethinks your Wi-Fis down. Irenes complicated. But Ill tell her.”*
An hour later, a message from Irene. Two words:
*”Im alive. Waiting.”*
Attached was a photo of Oliver building a Lego tower.
Those words*”waiting”*were my lifeline. Not *”leave me alone.”* Just *”waiting.”* The door wasnt shut forever.
Claire was right. Time wasnt for me to cool offI already had. It was for her panic, that primal fear of helplessness, to loosen its grip. And for her to believe she could come back to my *”waiting.”*
Two weeks later, she called.
“Daniel, I miss you. I want to come home. And Im ready to talk.”
“Im waiting,” I said, grinning. “Ill order pizza.”
We didnt talk about children that night. Or even the next month. But we started learning to trust againslowly, honestly, without masks. Maybe one day, when her fear feels less real than the card in her purse, well talk about a second child.
But for nowhonesty.
