Chapter 30:Adrain
1624 Words
Two years.
Two beautiful, peaceful years.Sometimes I caught myself wondering whether this was what people meant when they talked about finding home.
Because home had never been a place.
It was Jude.
It had always been Jude.
Every morning began with his sleepy smile.
Every evening ended with him tucked safely against my side.
We had travelled together.
Celebrated promotions.
Comforted each other through difficult days.
Argued over insignificant things like whose turn it was to choose a film.
Laughed until our stomachs hurt.
Loved each other without reservation.
Our marriage had become effortless.
Not because it required no work.
Because we had learned how to work together.
And every day, I fell in love with him all over again.
⸻
There was only one promise I hadn’t been ready to fulfil.
Children.
Every now and then, the thought would return.
I’d see a father carrying his daughter through the park.
I’d watch Jude smiling at a baby in a café.
I knew what he wasn’t saying.
I knew the longing still lived quietly inside him.
And every single time…
I’d convince myself there was still time.
Just one more year.
One more holiday.
One more anniversary.
One more season where it was only the two of us.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want a family.
I already had one.
Jude was my family.
Some stubborn, irrational part of me wanted to freeze time exactly where we were.
I wanted these mornings forever.
These evenings.
These lazy Sundays.
I wanted every version of Jude that belonged only to us.
I knew it wasn’t entirely rational.
Love wasn’t something that ran out.
A child wouldn’t erase what we had.
I understood that.
Yet the fear lingered anyway.
Quiet.
Persistent.
⸻
When I pulled into the driveway that evening, the windows glowed warmly.
Home.
The front door opened before I’d even reached it.
Jude smiled as though he’d been waiting.
“I was just about to text you.”
“I would’ve answered that I was already outside.”
He laughed softly.
“I made dinner.”
“I noticed.”
The smell of rosemary and garlic filled the house.
Candles flickered gently on the dining table.
Music drifted quietly through the rooms.
“You’ve been busy.”
“I wanted tonight to be nice.”
He said it so casually that I almost missed the carefulness beneath his voice.
Something was on his mind.
I knew him too well not to notice.
⸻
Dinner was lovely.
We laughed.
Talked about our days.
He told me about a patient who had finally been discharged after months in hospital.
I told him about an exhausting board meeting.
Everything felt easy.
Comfortable.
Until dessert.
Jude set his spoon down.
His fingers began tracing small circles against the side of his mug.
A habit.
He only did that when he was nervous.
“Adrian?”
I looked up.
“Hm?”
“Can we talk about something?”
“Always.”
He smiled faintly.
“Do you remember…”
He hesitated.
“…our first anniversary?”
Of course I remembered.
“The conversation about having a baby.”
There it was.
The conversation I’d known would come one day.
I set my cup down carefully.
“I remember.”
He searched my face.
“You told me ‘someday.’”
“I did.”
“Our third anniversary is only a few months away.”
I nodded.
“It is.”
He took a slow breath.
“I was just wondering…”
His voice became quieter.
“…if someday is here.”
The question settled gently between us.
There was no accusation.
No anger.
Just hope.
Hope made answering even harder.
I reached across the table and took his hand.
“I still want children.”
His shoulders relaxed slightly.
“But…”
The word alone changed everything.
His smile faded.
“I still don’t think now is the right time.”
Silence.
“I think…”
I searched for words that wouldn’t hurt him.
“…I think we’re happy.”
“We are.”
“I love our life.”
“So do I.”
“I want more time like this.”
“Just us.”
His eyes lowered to our joined hands.
“We’ve already had three years, Adrian.”
“I know.”
“We’ve travelled.”
“We’ve grown.”
“We’ve built our home.”
His voice cracked ever so slightly.
“When does ‘later’ become ‘now’?”
I had no answer.
Not one that would satisfy either of us.
Because the honest answer sounded so terribly selfish.
Finally…
I stopped hiding.
“I don’t know how to explain it.”
“You can tell me.”
“I…”
I laughed once, though there was no humour in it.
“I’m afraid.”
He looked up immediately.
“Afraid of what?”
I held his gaze.
“I’m afraid everything will change.”
“It will.”
“I know.”
“I’m afraid…”
I swallowed.
“…of sharing you.”
The words hung in the air.
“I’ve had you to myself for almost three years.”
“You’ve been my favourite part of every single day.”
“What if that changes?”
“What if one day you’re too exhausted for us?”
“What if all your attention belongs somewhere else?”
“What if…”
I smiled sadly.
“…I miss this?”
Jude stared at me.
For several long seconds, he didn’t speak.
Then…
“You’re serious.”
“I am.”
His chair scraped quietly against the floor as he stood.
“So…”
He whispered.
“The reason we’ve been waiting…”
“…is because you don’t want to share me?”
“It isn’t that simple.”
“It sounds that simple.”
“Jude—”
“Our family is supposed to grow.”
His voice trembled now.
“That’s what marriage is.”
“I know.”
“I want to grow old with you.”
“I want to grow old with you too.”
“I want to become parents with you.”
“I…”
He stopped, pressing a hand against his chest.
“I’ve waited.”
“I know.”
“I respected your decision.”
“I know.”
“I never pressured you.”
“I know.”
His eyes glistened.
“But Adrian…”
He shook his head.
“I need this.”
The vulnerability in those words broke something inside me.
“I’ve dreamed about it.”
“I know.”
“I’ve imagined our child.”
“I know.”
“I’ve imagined you holding them.”
“I know.”
He wiped quickly at his eyes.
“I’ll still love you.”
“My heart isn’t so small that loving our child would mean loving you less.”
“I know.”
“Then why can’t you believe that?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because I didn’t have an answer.
Not one that made sense.
He looked at me for a long time.
Then nodded once.
Slowly.
“I understand your fear.”
His voice was quiet now.
“But I can’t carry it for you.”
My chest tightened.
“I don’t want to choose between becoming a parent someday and protecting you from something that hasn’t even happened.”
“I wasn’t asking you to.”
“I know.”
He smiled sadly.
“But that’s where we are.”
He turned and quietly began clearing the plates.
I stood to help.
He gently shook his head.
“I’ll do it.”
“Jude…”
“I just…”
His voice wavered.
“I need a little time tonight.”
He wasn’t angry.
He wasn’t shouting.
That somehow hurt even more.
⸻
Later, I found him already lying in bed.
The lamp was still on.
He faced the window.
I changed quietly and slipped beneath the covers.
Carefully, I moved a little closer.
“Baby…”
No answer.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
His shoulders rose with a slow breath.
“I know.”
“I love you.”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t trying to say I never want children.”
“I know.”
I rested my hand lightly over his.
“I was only trying to explain what I’ve been feeling.”
He was silent for a moment.
Then he turned just enough for me to see the tears gathered in his eyes.
“I wish you had told me sooner.”
“So do I.”
“It would have been easier to understand than wondering whether you wanted a family with me at all.”
A lump formed in my throat.
“I do.”
“I believe you.”
He gave me a tired smile.
“But tonight…”
He looked away again.
“…my heart needs a little time to catch up with my head.”
I nodded.
“I understand.”
I didn’t pull him into my arms.
Not because I didn’t want to.
Because love had taught me that comfort couldn’t be demanded.
Sometimes the kindest thing you could give someone was the space to feel what they were feeling.
So I stayed beside him.
Close enough that he knew I hadn’t walked away.
Far enough that he could breathe.
As the bedroom fell quiet, one thought echoed painfully in my mind.
For years, I’d been afraid that a child might change our marriage.
Tonight, I realised something far more important.
If I let fear keep making our decisions, it would change us long before a child ever could.
- Writer
