“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 nameBarry’shangs 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.Makemeafather.com. 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 thema 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 presssendand type a short introductory email to this woman. As the wordsentappears 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?”
