Made To Be Broken - The Boston Hawks Hockey Series

Book 2 – Chapter Three

Brandy’s POV

I step out into the sunlight dazedly, leaflets clasped in my hand, each one explaining the different options I have to become a mother.

The female doctor I saw, Dr Wyatt walked me through each option carefully, answering my questions before handing me the leaflets and scheduling a return in two weeks time.

Walking toward my car, I’m a little dazed, I don’t really acknowledge the distance to my vehicle, if feels like seconds before my hand in on the handle and I’m opening the door and slipping inside.

My hands shake slightly as I place the leaflets on the seat beside me, staring at them in awe. I actually did it, I took the first step to realise my dream, the one that I’ve been harbouring for two years now, the desire to be a mum.

I suck in a shaky breath, trying to calm the emotions inside of me before starting the car. Sliding out of the space, I head for home, I should head back to the office, I have eight projects on my desk that need reviewing plus at charity event who need a call back, but my head is just not in the right place for work right now.

It takes me fifty minutes to get from the clinic, to the tree lined streets where my sanctuary is. Pulling into the residential streets, I feel my body relax, the tension of work and my life changing decision giving way to the peace of my surroundings.

I pull up outside of the simple two story home I purchased twelve months ago. The light blue, freshly painted slats of the exterior gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. It’s a far cry from the cramped city apartment I was living in, but I figured if I was ever going to make the leap into parenthood, I needed a real home to raise the baby in.

I climb out of my car, stuffing the leaflets into my purse and head up the flagged path to the wooden steps that lead up to my front door. Sliding my key into the lock, I swing the door open and step inside, the scent of polish and fresh flowers greeting me.

Walking through my home, I take in the neatly tidied space, noting that my cleaning lady, Laurette has also put away my laundry that I left, folded on the chair this morning, something I repeatedly tell her she does not need to do, but the saint of a woman does anyway.

Entering the kitchen, I place my purse on the worktop, next to my bi weekly bouquet of flowers that has been delivered fresh today. I’ve never had anyone buy me flowers before, the few boyfriends I had in the past either didn’t think I was worth it when I mentioned receiving them, or bailed long before we got to that stage in a relationship.

My father never bought my mother flowers, but I remember the first time I saw someone receive some. I was at a friend’s house and her dad came in, smiling widely, a huge bouquet of flowers in his hands for his wife. Her face lit up, and she rushed to take them, asking why he had got them and he just said ‘Because my beautiful wife deserves beautiful things for how happy she makes me.’

Those words and the look on my friend’s mother’s face stuck with me, and I longed to have someone see me as my friend’s father saw his wife. I asked my own father to buy me some but he said it wasn’t the kind of thing a dad bought his daughter, it was something a man bought when he fell in love. So I waited, for the man who was going to love me so much he would buy me flowers. Years rolled by, and men came and went, some around for important dates but the flowers never came. Each time, I had a birthday or a celebration, it cut a little deeper that none of the men in my life loved me enough to ever buy me some.

After my last breakup, with a guy who thought his gym instructor was a better option that me, I was walking down the street, wondering why I just can’t find someone like my friend’s father. Am I not lovable enough? It seems to be the case, lost in my own thoughts, I bumped into someone, falling against a window as the stranger scowled at me before hurrying away. Straightening up, I turned to find I was outside of a florist. As I stared in the window at the arrangements, a determination washed over me. I decided I was done waiting for other people to buy me things, and feeling disappointed when it never happened. Dine feeling like I wasn’t worth flowers just because the men I dated didn’t think so. I marched inside and placed a order for myself, taking a card and writing a note to myself, ‘you ARE worth flowers’ and took them home.

Ever time I looked at the vase, I felt happier, the feeling of inadequacy faded a little, so now I send them to myself, every two weeks, replacing the old as they start to wither, reminding myself that I don’t need a man to validate me, I am enough all on my own.

The other thing is that these flowers are not just a little present I send to myself, it’s also a small burst of colour in this big house that despite everything, always feels a little empty . . . Something that I hope will be cured if I finally decide to jump in and make my dream a reality.

Leaning over the vase, I inhale the sweet smell of this season’s flowers, a smile forming on my lips.

Leaving the flowers where Laurette placed them, I head to the refrigerator and tug out a bottle of wine, pouring myself a glass. It’s two pm but dammit, its five o’clock somewhere and I’ve got nowhere to be for the rest of the night.

Taking a sip, I savour the flavour before walking back to my purse and opening it, lifting out the hastily stashed leaflets and carrying them through to the living room. Settling in my favourite chair, I place my glass beside me on the small table and pick up the first leaflet, reading the heading, IVF. Dr Wyatt explained the procedure and told me that honestly, as my problem is lack of a husband rather than an issue with reproduction, that maybe one of the cheaper options would be better to begin with.

Rummaging through the pile, I pull out a glossy tri fold, reading the cover that has ICI – Intracervical Insemination emblazoned across it. This is the least invasive option and Dr Wyatt said that I can actually do the procedure at home with a kit. I’ll have to track my own ovulation but it isn’t as expensive as any other avenue out there.

I nibble on my lip, turning the leaflet over and flattening it out on my knee, taking in the coloured photo of a woman cradling a baby, beaming widely, the next one two women one with the baby in her arms, the other, her arms wrapped around them both. My hand moves to my flat stomach as I stare at them, a tug forming in my chest, that could be me, the woman, on her own, cradling her child, could be me.