You know, it’s funny. You have those people who were once huge parts of your life, the kind you used to speak to every day, who knew every detail of your routine, and then, somewhere between sleep regressions and laundry mountains, they just… drift. There’s no big falling out, no harsh words exchanged. Just a slow fade. A“we must catch up soon”here, a“next week maybe?”there. And before you know it, it’s been six months, your WhatsApp chat has slipped below“School Uniform Order Reminder,”and you start to wonder whether your friendship expired like the hummus in the back of your fridge.
That’s how it was with Lou.
So, when we finally pinned down a date for coffee, a proper one, with adult conversation and no children trying to lick the salt shakers, it felt like we’d achieved something monumental. I half expected confetti to fall from the ceiling the moment I walked into the café.
Instead, I was greeted by the familiar hum of a coffee machine that sounded one espresso shot away from collapse. The air smelled of burnt milk and vanilla syrup. A toddler screechedsomewhere in the background, and the barista, a weary twenty-something with a nose ring and existential dread in her eyes, gave me a look that said, don’t ask for anything complicated.
And there was Lou, already seated at a corner table, aggressively stirring her cappuccino like it had personally offended her. Her hair was tied up in a bun that screamed I gave up at 6:30 a.m., and her oversized jumper looked like it had absorbed at least three different bodily fluids that week.
“You’re alive,” I said, collapsing into the chair opposite.
“Barely.” She exhaled, flicking a stray curl from her face. “I mean, I technically still have a pulse, but that’s about all I can confirm right now.”
“Relatable.” I reached for the sugar packets, though I knew I’d just end up stirring without adding anything. “I swear, if I stay still for too long, rigor mortis might set in. I’m basically one long yawn in human form.”
Lou laughed tired, but genuine. Then she took a long sip of coffee, her eyes fluttering closed like caffeine was holy communion. “Thanks for coming. I really needed this.”
“Me too,” I lied automatically. Not because I didn’t want to see her, I did, but because getting out of the house these days felt like training for a marathon I hadn’t consented to run. Between kids, work, and the general chaos of existence, “me time” felt like a myth perpetuated by self-help influencers.
We exchanged the usual mum-isms: the lack of sleep, the endless snack demands, the evolving stench of a car filled with half-eaten rice cakes. There was laughter, there was eye-rolling, there was solidarity in our shared exhaustion.
And then Lou’s tone shifted. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, glanced around, and lowered her voice.
“So… things with Harry are not great.”
I tilted my head, keeping my expression soft but neutral. “Oh?”
She sighed; the long, weary kind that carried more weight than words. “I don’t know. We’re just… existing. You know? Like we’re great co-parents, we run the household like a well-oiled machine, but beyond that? It’s just… flat. The IVF is taking a toll on me and my body and he will never understand that. He’s also finding it super stressful as he’s always wanted a big family and it’s just not happening for us. It’s so much pressure for a relationship.”
I nodded sympathetically, stirring my untouched coffee. “Yeah, it’s so hard, isn’t it? Trying to keep things alive when you’ve got kids, add IVF into the mix and I… I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through, Lou. I’m so sorry.”
Lou looked up, her eyes tired but searching. “Exactly. I mean, I still love him. It’s not that. It’s just that we’re stuck in this place now where sex became a chore and now it’s just like a… a sexless pandemic.”
I nearly choked. “Sexless pandemic?”
She waved her spoon dramatically. “Yes! Like an epidemic, but with fewer orgasms. And it’s not just us either! We have the excuse of having to have sex to actually conceive a child. But it’s everywhere. I swear, no one I know is having sex. It’s like the romance part of parenting died out and we’re all just waiting for the funeral.”
I laughed weakly. “That’s… one way to put it.”
Because the truth? I had been having sex. Lots of it. Great sex. The kind that left me breathless and slightly disoriented the next morning. But saying that out loud when Lou is going through something so difficult, felt cruel.
To begin with, I used to join in with the tired complaints of other mums at playgroup. The collective sighing over how we were all too knackered for intimacy, how we’d rather fold laundry than think about foreplay. It felt safe to blend in, tonod and sip and pretend that my marriage was just as dry as everyone else’s.
But things had changed. Dan and I had changed.
And now, sitting across from Lou, I felt like a fraud.
“Yeah,” I said again softly. “It’s really tough.”
The memory of that conversation clung to me all week.
At playgroup two days later, it replayed in my mind like a loop. The room smelled faintly of coffee, biscuits, and the unmistakable tang of baby wipes. I sat in the usual circle, clutching my paper cup, while the other mums traded war stories about co-parenting and breakups.
“Mark dropped them off with no coats again,” Clara piped up. “I swear he thinks the weather stops existing when it’s his week.”
“My ex blocked me on WhatsApp,” another added. “I had to email him about our daughter’s dentist appointment. Who even emails anymore?”
The circle buzzed with sympathy and frustration, everyone nodding and sighing in solidarity.
