October 12th
The chill of Grimsborough seems to seep into everything—the damp pavements, the red-brick terraces, even the air itself, heavy with the weight of autumn. For a while, my life with William felt like something out of a fairy tale, the kind that promised a happy ending. He was already married when we met, but his first wife had left him—heartbroken, he said, because she couldn’t give him a child. I became his fresh start, his hope.
We’d only been together three months when he proposed. I said yes without hesitation, my heart swooning. We understood each other, respected each other, and the love between us burned so fiercely it felt invincible. But doubts crept in when I realised I wasn’t falling pregnant. William changed overnight, as if replaced by a stranger. He grew cold, dragging me from clinic to clinic, insisting I try every treatment, every procedure. I obeyed, my head bowed, because the thought of losing him was unbearable. His dream of a child became my burden.
Then, finally, the test showed two lines. That day, joy cut through Grimsborough’s usual grey like a rare burst of sunlight. But the happiness didn’t last. The pregnancy was gruelling—I spent most of it confined to a hospital bed, too weak to move. Still, our son arrived healthy, though fussy. A blessing, I told myself.
The depression hit soon after. Alfie wouldn’t sleep, crying through the night while I stumbled through the days, exhausted, barely able to wash my face. The laundry piled up. The dishes sat untouched. I waited for William to step in, to be the partner I needed, but he withdrew, his indifference sharper than any blade. One night, as Alfie wailed again, William snapped. “I can’t even watch the match in peace!” he shouted. Then the words that cut deepest: “You’re a rubbish mum if he won’t stop screaming.”
He left. Packed a bag and went to his parents’, leaving me alone in our silent, cold house. Alone with the child he’d wanted so desperately. Now Alfie’s tears mix with mine, my heart breaking with every sob. How could he? This baby was everything to him—until he became an inconvenience.
Now, in the quiet, broken only by Alfie’s whimpers, I wonder—what now? Is this just a rough patch, or the end of us? The love that once felt unshakable now seems as fragile as the first ice on Grimsborough’s river. Do I fight for us, or walk away? The thought of divorce terrifies me, but living with his coldness is worse.
What would you do? Forgive him, or turn the page and start again?
