Page 87 of Forever, Maybe
A spontaneous night out with his wife. Something utterly unattainable for the Land Rover man or anyone else saddled with small children. The thought brought him back to the mantra he repeated to himself almost daily:
Who wants kids anyway? Too much hard work for too little reward. I’d have been like that Land Rover-driving arsehole—grumpy, resentful, me and Nell bickering constantly. It’s just as well Nell’s going through an early menopause.
Just as well.
But the words rang hollow. Somewhere deep inside, he knew he was trying to convince himself. One day, perhaps, his subconscious might finally believe him. One day, that yawning, empty chasm in his soul might heal.
Chapter thirty-eight
Dannykepthiswordand pulled into the driveway at precisely four o’clock. Nell, busy adding the final flourishes to a client’s website, closed her MacBook with a soft click and stood, stretching until a satisfying crack rippled between her shoulders. From her office window, she watched him park his maroon BMW, its polished surface glinting in the afternoon light.
Her gaze drifted to her hands as she stretched her arms in front of her. The faint map of veins beneath her skin seemed more pronounced than she remembered. It was a small thing, but these days, every shift in her body felt like another betrayal. Another reminder of June’s visit to the doctor—a memory branded so deeply it surfaced unbidden, a grim souvenir of how little control humans have over their fates.
It had been soon after their return to London. Nell, feeling worn out, had reasoned that a health check was overdue. The exhaustion, erratic weight loss, chaotic cycles, and her maddening tendency to cry ateverything—even TV ads—had started to wear her down. Sitting in the sterile confines of her GP’s office, she listed her symptoms while the doctor, a grey-haired woman with a cropped, no-nonsense haircut, nodded thoughtfully.
“Weight loss?” the doctor had asked, pausing to scribble something in her notes.
“Six, maybe seven pounds,” Nell replied.
The doctor looked up, her expression kind but serious. “We’ll run some blood tests. Check your FSH levels.”
“FSH?” Nell asked, her brow furrowing.
“Follicle-stimulating hormone,” the doctor explained, her lips forming a tight line. “Higher levels can indicate menopause and might explain some of your symptoms.”
The wordmenopauselanded with a thud in Nell’s brain. She nodded slowly, but the meaning caught up with her in a rush, and her voice burst out before she could stop it.
“Menopause? But I’m forty-two, not fifty-two! And I’velostweight, not gained it! Aren’t menopausal women always complaining about that spare tyre around their stomachs? This makes no sense!”
Her voice had risen into a near-wail, and the doctor raised her hands in a placating gesture. “Mrs Murray, please. The walls here are paper-thin.” Her tone softened, though her expression remained measured. “We don’t know anything for certain until the results come back. If the lab confirms elevated FSH, there are treatments we can explore. HRT, for instance—it’s a game changer. I’m on it myself. Give it a couple of months, and you’ll feel like a new person.”
The GP was convinced Nell was going through menopause. Nell, however, allowed herself to doubt, clinging to the hope that cold, hard evidence might prove otherwise. When the confirmation came—a phone call delivered by the GP herself—Nell listened in a robotic haze.
“Right. So itismenopause,” she repeated, her voice hollow. “Okay. I’ll book an appointment. And I’ll need a prescription for HRT and calcium supplements, right?”
She hung up and wandered to the mirror, catching her own reflection. Only, it wasn’t entirely hers. Her mother’s face stared back—etched into her own features by time and inevitability.
I’m old. I’m on that rapid decline. I’ve achieved nothing, nothing, nothing worthwhile with my life…
When she told Danny, she braced for the heartbreak she knew was inevitable. She hadn’t changed her mind about not wanting children, but having the choice ripped away from her was something else entirely.
“No, Danny,” she said quietly, her voice flat. “There won’t be any kids. I’m sorry.”
A knot twisted itself around her chest, constricting tighter as his face fell. She couldn’t leave it there. She placed her hand beneath his chin, tipping it upward to meet his eyes.
“You’re fertile, Danny,” she said softly, the words cutting through her. “You can—”
“Don’t, Nell!” he snapped, jerking her hand away.
Since then, they’d muddled on, the ghosts of unspoken accusations lingering between them like unwelcome houseguests.
You refused to even consider a baby when we were young enough.
You worked too much!
And her rebuttal, a silent scream in her mind:But I told you from the start I didn’t WANT children! Why didn’t you listen?
The conversations they avoided hovered, a barrier they couldn’t breach.
