White Tablecloth, Grey Life
The stew was excellentBecky was absolutely certain, having tasted it thrice during the afternoon, each time feeling rather pleased with herself. The veg was fresh from the Saturday market, the beef on the bone had simmered away for hours, and shed added a dash of garlic right at the end, as her mum had taught her. On the table stood candles, and the white linen tablecloththe good one, preserved for special occasions. Fifteen years, after all. That had to count as something special.
Dusk pressed at the kitchen window. October in Nottingham always felt the samegrey, soggy, everything tinged with the scent of decomposing leaves and choking on exhaust fumes. Becky fussed with the forks, tidying the corner of the tablecloth, though it was already perfectly straight. Then she stood in the centre of the tiny kitchen, listening for a moment to the gentle tick-tock above the fridge.
Tony came in just before nine. She heard him fussing with the lock, then the familiar thud of a supermarket bag, the click of the hall light.
“So then, whats for tea?” Tony poked his head in, still zipped into his jacket, nose gleaming red from the chill.
“Go wash your hands, come sit down,” Becky smiled. “Stew, roast chicken, made a salad for you as well.”
Tony chucked his jacket onto the nearest chair, taking a quick glance around.
“Candles? Really?”
“Well, yes, Tony, its our anniversary, isnt it?”
He didnt reply, just hurried to the sink, barely scrubbed his hands and dropped into his chair. Becky ladled out the stew, placing the bowl in front of him. A dollop of proper market-bought sour cream perched on top, just the way he liked it.
Tony sniffed, scooped up a spoonful, chewed.
“A bit tart, isnt it?”
Becky sat opposite.
“Is it? I thought it was spot on.”
“Mums stew is different, somehow,” he grumbled. “Hers is I dunno, proper. Rich, full of flavour. Thats a stew for you.”
Becky picked up her spoon.
“Eat up, while its still hot.”
“Dont worry, I am.” Tony spun the bowl. “Why the white tablecloth? Youll get stains on it.”
“I wont.”
“Right-o.” He snorted. “Mum always used a dark one for occasionsburgundy. Sensible. Looks nice as well.”
Becky gazed at the flickering candles. Their little flames trembled as Tony fidgeted at the table.
“Tony,” she said evenly, “its been fifteen years since we got married today.”
“I know that.”
“You didnt say anything when you came in.”
He glanced up, surprised, a bit put out. “Did you want me to congratulate you? We live together, its not a birthday.”
“Well, I dont know. Fifteen years… seems something.”
“Its just fifteen years, Bex.” He cut her off. “Wheres the chicken?”
Becky stood, fetched the roast bird from the oven. Crisp, fragrant, sprinkled with herbshe liked it like that.
“Dry,” Tony declared immediately, sawing at a slice.
“I only just took it out.”
“Means you left it too long. Mum always covers hers with foil, turns out perfect every time.”
Becky helped herself to a bit. A car passed outside, lights flashing across the ceiling.
“Did you see your mum today?” she asked.
“Stopped by after work. Why?”
“No reason. Just wondered.”
He eyed the white tablecloth again.
“Shouldnt have used the white one, honestly, love. Doesnt look right. Mum, she knows how to do a nice spreadright plates, proper cloth, bread cut thin. Look at this,” he nodded at the loaf. “Great, chunky slices.”
Becky set her fork down. Not angrily, just quietly. Beside her plate.
Something inside her clenched, then let go, like a fist unclenching.
“Tony,” she said, surprised by how steady her voice sounded, “do you hear what youre saying?”
He looked up, that familiar glimmer of annoyance only hungry people possess.
“What? Im just saying Mum does it better. Not an insult.”
“You walked through the door, didnt say a word, started picking apart dinner, the tablecloth, the bread, the chicken. I spent three hours cooking, Tony.”
“Well, you did. So? Am I meant to stand and clap? Thats just what you do.”
Becky was quiet for a second.
“Just what I do,” she repeated, like rolling the idea around on her tongue.
“Yeah. You do the home stuff. I go out and earn. Makes sense.”
“And fifteen years, thats just… what, nothing?”
“Come on, Bex, what are you after? A poem?” He let out a short laugh. “Mum always said too much romance makes a mess, better to keep an orderly house, thats what keeps a family together.”
The candle flickered, as if it too had just overheard something.
Becky stood, cleared her plate. She went to the window, stood and watched wet rooftops, golden squares of light, the big tree in the courtyard almost bare of leaves.
She turned.
“Tony, pack your things.”
His head jerked up.
“What?”
“Pack your things and go. Please.”
He stared at her like shed burst into Latin. Then he laughed, sharp and brief, like a cough.
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“Because of the stew?”
“Not because of the stew.”
“Then what? Because I mentioned Mum? Becky, dont be ridiculous.”
“Its not ridiculous to me.”
“Oh, are you honestly upset?” He stood, folding his arms. “Well, fine, sorry if your feelings are hurt. Come, eat something at least.”
“No, Tony.”
He stared. She stood by the window, upright and unruffled. Perhaps he expected tears, shouting, a slammed dooranything but this calm.
“Youre not joking,” he said slowly.
“No.”
Silence. Clock ticking. Candles burning.
“All over one conversation,” he began.
“Not one,” Becky replied. “Fifteen years of the same conversation. Go on, Tony. Take whatever you need. Ill pack up the rest for you.”
Tony stood there another minute, then turned and went to the bedroom. She heard bags rustling, the wardrobe opening. She stayed in the kitchen, gazing at the steady candlelight.
When he came out with his bag, he halted at the kitchen door. Eyed the table laid out, white cloth, thick-cut bread, untouched stew.
“Youll regret it,” he said.
“Maybe,” Becky replied. “Goodbye, Tony.”
The door closed. Lock clicked. She sat and listened as his footsteps faded away.
Afterwards, she blew the candles outno point letting them burnand did the washing-up. The stew went in the fridge. She wasnt hungry anymore.
The flat smelt of fried onions and that damp trace of October, when the council opens all the windows but hasnt yet turned up the heat.
At half ten, Becky went to bed. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the neighbours telly through the wall, thinking only one thing: she wasnt crying. That was odd.
***
Mrs. Parker always opened the door before Tony could ring a second time, as though shed been waiting behind it.
“Anthony!” She fluttered her hands at the sight of his bag. “Heavens, whats happened?”
“She kicked me out,” he said.
“Who, that one?” Mrs. Parker stepped back to let him in. “What did I tell you, Anthony, Ive told you time and again! Come in, come in, Ive just made a chicken and potato soupyour favourite.”
He slipped his shoes off and shuffled into the kitchen. The place smelled of food, and that distinct elderly-woman aroma: a touch of moth balls, a whiff of cough medicine, knitted together by the kitchens embrace.
His mother busied herself at the hob, never pausing her monologue.
“I always knew she wasnt right for you. Cold woman, Anthony, you see? Cold women never have children, natures way, if you ask me. Tuck in, Ive sliced bread thinly for you.”
The bread was indeed wafer-thin, neatly done. Tony stared at it, remembering how Becky cut hers so thick.
“Mum, not now,” he muttered.
“Not now? Im speaking the truth! Fifteen years she made you miserable. No kids, no proper home. Try the soup.”
The soup was rich and hearty, just as advertised. Tony kept his head down and ate.
The first few days drifted by in a fog. He went to work, came back, watched telly with his mum. Mrs. Parker genuinely seemed delighted to be cooking for him daily. “You must eat better, Anthony, you look so pale these days,” shed scold, spooning out cottage pie.
By day three, shed unpacked his suitcase herself while he was at work.
“Dont wear that shirt againits all creased. Ill iron your blue one, that suits you.”
“I like the grey one,” Tony replied.
“Yes, but I think the blue is better.”
He shrugged, finished up his dinner, listened to tales about Mrs. Jones from the fourth floor who “went her own way and seems just fine”, which somehow all circled back to Becky. Tony half-listened.
A week in, his mother announced he needed new shoes. “Yours are falling apart, Saturday well go shopping.”
“Mum, theyre fine.”
“Anthony, I can see the soles coming off.”
“It isnt.”
“It is. Were going.”
In the shop, she fussed, made him try shoe after shoeher choices, not his. He wanted black, simple. She bought brown, with decorative buckles.
“Look, just right,” she beamed.
“I dont like them.”
“Now dont be a child!” she told him. “These are far better, end of.”
The shop assistant averted her gaze. Tony stared at his reflection: a middle-aged bloke in brown shoes with buckles who looked as lost as he felt.
In the evenings, his mum reminisced about his boyhood, all the sacrifices shed made: “Becky never appreciated you.” He nodded along, absent, sometimes thinking of that white tablecloth, the silly candles, the bread cut thick. He still couldnt see the point. Fifteen years, so what? What was there even to celebrate?
But he did think about it.
He also thought, sometimes, about how she hadnt cried. Hadnt raised her voice. Shed simply stood by the window and asked himcalm as you liketo go. He had expected anything but that.
Within a month, his mother began running his schedule by proxy. She didnt officially arrange things, just, “Tuesday youre seeing the doctor, I booked it,” “Thursday were round Aunt Sues,” and, “Friday dont be late, Im making pie and I hate waiting.”
Inevitably, Tony stayed late at the office one Friday, stuck in a meeting. He called to say so. She talked at him the whole bus ride home, and he held the phone to his ear, staring out at the dreary city.
The pie was delicious, as always. Everything was delicious.
But as Tony sat at the kitchen table, he felt a heavy weight in his chest. Not pain. Just a quiet, pressing tightness, as though there wasnt quite enough air.
***
For the first few weeks, Becky lived as if in a fog.
She went to work, came home, cooked simple meals for herself, slept badly. The quiet in the flat was particularly unnerving in the evenings, but over time, the silence just became silence.
Her friend Jenny called every other day. “Becky, how are you? Fancy coming over?” Becky would tell her not to fuss, she was coping. Jenny still turned up the first Saturday, bearing wine and biscuits. They spent the night in the kitchen, talking till the small hoursabout candles, stew, mother-in-laws perfect tablecloths. Jenny listened, occasionally muttering a confident, “What a sod,” which actually helped a bit.
“You did the right thing,” Jenny assured her at the end of the night. “Absolutely right, Bex.”
“Its scary,” Becky confessed.
“I know. Itll pass.”
After Jenny left, Becky stood in the lounge and looked at the thick, old navy curtainsTonys proud purchase, bought eight years ago for their practical blackout qualities. Theyd hung there ever since; Becky had never paid them much mind.
She took them down the next day. It took nearly an hourheavy rail, wobbly chair. But once done, the room glowed. The chilly, boring October light was still preferable to the navy gloom.
She moved the sofa next, with the help of old Mr. Wilson from upstairs. He got it to the opposite wall, nearer the window, spilling sunshine over its battered cushions.
Odd, but nice.
After two weeks, Becky slept better. Not amazing, but at least without staring at the ceiling till three.
Work remained unchanged. Becky was a dependable accounts clerknever late, nails in order, files immaculate. Her boss, Mrs. Williamson, was short, stern, and always wore pearls. She rarely shared much about herself, but she noticed Becky, and seemed to approve.
At the end of October, Mrs. Williamson called her into the office.
“Becky,” she said, brisk as ever, “Im retiring next year. Moving closer to my daughter. The director wants you for my jobhead of accounts.”
Becky sat silent for a few moments.
“Me?” she finally managednot that she didnt understand, just for something to say.
“You, yes. Dont think I havent noticed who actually works here. Ive had you in mind all year. Say yes.”
On the bus home, Becky considered the offer. Head of accounts: more responsibility, bigger workloadalways terrified her a little. Tony used to say, “Why do you need a career? Its not like youre alone, Im earning.” Shed agreed, never really argued.
Now, as streetlights zipped by the window, she thought: why not?
November was full of small projects. She repainted her bedroom wall a gentle yellow, swapped curtains for thin linen ones, bought a warm orange lampshade and clicked it on every evening. The flat began to feel like hers.
She bought geraniums, lined them up on the sill. The green, fresh scent suited the linen and painted walls.
Tony dealt with solicitors through letters; everything got sorted peacefully. Flat was hers; he didnt make a fusshis mother probably pushed for that, or maybe hed simply run out of energy.
In December, Becky accepted the head job. Mrs. Williamson shook her hand, smiling more sincerely than Becky had ever seen.
New Years Eve was spent at Jennyscrowded, noisy, kids underfoot, dogs, several massive bowls of potato salad. Becky felt joyful and a little melancholythe special sadness you get right before holidays, when you look back. She toasted with prosecco, peered out at the fireworks, and thought: the year is over, and Im still standing. Maybe even okay.
***
Winter didnt treat Tony well.
Mum booked him endless appointmentsGP, heart specialist, stomach checks”You look dreadful, Anthony, you must get checked!” He went along. The doctors found nothing. “Nothing out of order for your age,” they all repeated. His mother looked genuinely disappointed not to have something to fuss over.
He became grouchier at work. Pete from the loading bayhis smoking mateasked, “Whats got your back up?”
“Nothing,” Tony replied.
“Trouble at home?”
“No.”
Pete finished his ciggy and left. Tony loitered, peering at the dirty glass of the factory window. The snow in the yard was like a filthy old jumper, tire-marks everywhere. He didnt want to go back to work, or home, or anywhere.
He wondered: where would he go, if he could?
He had no answer.
Mum greeted him every night, promptly. But there was always an agenda: wear this, go there, eat this. If he was late, she rang. If he didnt pick up, she rang again. And texted: “Im worried, Anthony. Where are you?”
One night in February, Pete invited him back for a pint and the football. Tony didnt get in till nearly eleven.
Mum sat in the dim kitchen, lights off. When he entered, she clicked them on, fixing him with a stare sharp enough to curdle milk.
“Where were you?”
“I told you, Mum.”
“You said, Ill be late. Doesnt help, does it? I didnt know where you were. I worried myself sick.”
“Mum…”
“Eat up, I left some for you.” She dumped reheated meatballs before him. “And please leave your mobile on. I tried three times.”
“I didnt turn it off; I didnt hear. We watched the match.”
“Football,” she repeated, like that explained his worst failings.
Tony stared at the table as he ate.
He realized lately he was constantly making excuses. Everywhere, for everything. Why late. Why that shirt. Why he hadnt rung. Why he ate what he ate, or didnt.
He vaguely remembered saying, “Mum always knows whats right.” Might even have been proud of that. Now the memory stung.
In March, he looked at flat shares, found a cheapish room near work, mentioned it to mum.
She cried.
Not dramatic, just quietly: “So youre unhappy here. Im getting in your way. I see, Anthony.”
He stayed put.
Some nights, he dreamt of Beckynot in any romance-novel way, just: shes chopping veg in the kitchen, or theyre driving somewhere. Mundane scenes. Hed wake up and stare at the ceiling, nothing but ceiling.
Hed wonderwhats she up to now? Is she alright?
And then: oh, shes probably found somebody new already.
The thought made him cross.
***
February turned out surprisingly bright. The snow actually sparkled, and as Becky made her way to the bus stop in the low winter sun, she squinted and reminded herself to finally buy proper sunglasses.
She didpale pink, thin frame. She tried them on in the shop and laughed at her own reflection.
Work bustled along. The new job was hard, but she coped. She often stayed late, lost in reports, discussing numbers with the boss, Mr. Jennings, a reliable, stoic man who only seemed to approve of precision. He seemed pleased with her work, you could tell.
Her colleagues treated her warmly. Young Claire, the assistant, began to fetch her lattes unasked, blushing furiously when Becky said thanks.
In March, Jenny dragged her along to a birthday party at her friends place. Becky hesitatedstrangers, noise, an effort. Jenny insisted: “Come on, Becky, youve turned old before your time. Itll be fun, promise.”
The hostess, Sarah, was brillianta big laugh, open house, two enormous tabby cats and a potted palm the size of a Christmas tree. There were at least a dozen people. Becky spent half an hour clinging to Jennys shoulder, then found herself chatting to a maths teacher over cheese squaresthe evening flew by.
Opposite her sat Alex. He didnt stand out at first: a short, slightly balding chap in a faded grey jumper. Spoke little, listened intently, smiled at the right bits.
Later, with guests thinning, they both found themselves by the window with tea.
He asked something, she answered, then he repliedconversation just happened, light and easy. He worked as an engineer, on his own for four yearswife passed away from cancer, he said simply, like something already processed.
“Known Sarah long?” Becky asked.
“Her ex-husband and I both support Forest. He moved to Ireland, but we stayed friends. And you?”
“Jenny and Imates since uni.”
“Good to have old friends,” he noted.
“Very good,” Becky agreed.
They swapped numbers, no strings attached. He texted three days later: coffee? She agreed.
They met in a little shop round the corner from her office. Chatted for two hours. She told him about her marriage ending; he listened gently, no advice, no judgement. Later, he shared his own story. They stood outside afterwards. It was cold, but felt nice. He asked if he could call again. She said yes.
Then there was a riverside walk, then the cinema. By April, he invited her for dinner at his.
***
Alexs flat perched on the fifth floor of a weatherbeaten brick block. Becky, clutching a bottle of wine, trekked up the stairs, steeling herself for a bachelors mess and bracing to act unfazed. Quiet nerves fluttered inside her; after years of being weighed and found wanting, it was a reflex.
She rang the bell.
He opened the door. The place smelt gently of applesa waft of sweetness and something warm and spicy, maybe cinnamon.
“Come in,” Alex smiled. “I got ahead, put an apple pie in the oven. Hope you like apple.”
“I love apple,” said Becky, stepping in.
The flat was simple, not spick-and-span but welcomingbooks, newspapers, and DIY tools scattered about. Nothing for show, just a real place.
She helped prep saladchopping tomatoes alongside him, while he cubed cheese. Sometimes they spoke, sometimes not, and the silences didnt weigh heavy.
Becky waited, unconsciously braced for a criticism”cucumbers would be better”, or “wrong kind of cheese”, or just one of those looks shed known too well for fifteen years.
Nothing. They sat, he poured the wine, looked around the table, then at her.
“Thanks for coming,” he said.
Just three words. No disclaimers.
Becky glanced at her plate and felt something inside her loosen at last. For ages, it was like shed been holding her breath, always ready for troubleand now, she could finally, quietly exhale.
Outside, Aprils dusk blurred the lamp glow through opening leaves on the tree below. The pie in the oven huffed quietly, apple-scent rising through the flat.
They talked for hoursabout childhood, her dreams of teaching, how shed become an accountant. He spoke about his current restoration project. Becky listened, thinking what a hopeful job it seemed, repairing whats been broken.
As she left, he walked her to the stairs, said quietly, “Im glad we met.”
On the way home, Becky wasnt just thinking about Alexreally, she was thinking about apple pie, and how odd it was to just go to someones home and not expect to be hurt. To simply share dinner, chat, then go away lighter.
***
Summer went by quietly and well.
Becky and Alex met up often, but never in a rush. Saturdays theyd browse the market togethershed buy herbs and cream, hed look for fish. Cooking together was surprisingly lovelyso different from the past.
In July, she stayed the night. Too late to go home, and she didnt want to. In the morning, he brought her coffee in bednothing filmic, just a mug and a gentle touch.
“You working today?” he asked.
“Not till twelve.”
“How about a morning trip to the market? Cherries should be in, you like cherries.”
She clasped her mug, the summer air blue and fresh outside, birds wheeling above. A strange urge to cry rose up, but not out of sadnesssomething else, something you feel when you realise youre happy.
“Yes,” she said.
In autumn, Alex asked if shed like to move in, quietly, as they dried dishes one evening.
“Becky, maybe you should move here? I think it would be good for you. Theres plenty of space. Well, itd be nice for me, too.”
“Ill think about it,” she said.
“Of courseno rush.”
She thought for two weeks, then said yes.
In November, she brought her things overbooks, geraniums, the orange lampshade, linen curtains. Alex shifted shelves to fit her books in among the technical manuals; the blend looked good.
In December, they popped round the registry officejust the four of them: Jenny, and Alexs mate Steve as witnesses. Afterwards, they nipped to a restaurant, laughed, Jenny shed a tear and insisted it was happiness.
In January, Becky found out she was pregnant.
She stood in the bathroom, test in hand, staring at two blue lines for a full ten minutes.
She was forty-three. Shed always told herself children werent in the cardsTony hadnt wanted any, or maybe she hadnt, or both had drifted and left it unsaid. No one ever told her it was impossible, but shed stopped hoping years ago.
And yet.
Alex was in the next room, working on plans. She found him, hovered in the doorway. He looked up.
“What is it?” he asked gently.
She handed him the test. He studied it silently, then rose and hugged her close, not a word, just holding on.
Then quietly, “Thats wonderful, Becky. Really wonderful.”
She buried her face in his shoulder and sobbedproper, cathartic tears, the sort you havent let out in years. He held her, repeating, “Its all right. Its all right.”
***
April came again. Once more, the café, the riversideonly now, Becky waddled along gently beside Alex, his hand steadying her elbow.
Six months gone, the baby kicking. Her workmates all knew. Mr. Jennings found her in the hallway: “Congratulations, Mrs. Foster. Your desk will be here waitingdont worry.” Young Claire looked at her with a new sort of respect.
The flatnow their flatwas cluttered with little things: a tiny cot still in its box, a moon-shaped night-light, stacks of minuscule clothes. Becky would open the drawer just to touch them, half-disbelieving this was all real.
Mornings shed sip tea by the window, taking in the first grass poking up in the communal garden, hearing the apple blossom start in the neighbours tree. She was content, at peace.
Some nights, though, when Alex was asleep and she was alone with the gentle thud inside, Becky reflected on the past. Not painfully, more as if gazing at an old childhood photo: that was a life, those were people. Some regret remainedshe wasnt sure for what, exactly. Perhaps for all those lost years that could have been different, or for her younger self, so diligent with the stew and the white cloth.
She didnt know about Tony. Jenny once mentioned spotting him looking older in Sainsburys. Becky nodded, said nothing. She didnt wish him illhe was simply part of a story that wasnt hers any longer.
***
Tony sat in his mothers kitchen.
April outside, but inside, winter as ever: thick curtains muffling any hint of sunshine, the same shelves, the same old dusty scent, nerve balm, beefy steam, and nostalgia for times that never were.
Mrs. Parker stood at the stove, talkingshe always talked, especially when stirring supper.
“Still looking peaky, Anthony. I told you: get a proper doctor, not those NHS ones. Ive heard of a good heart specialist. Ill book you in.”
“I feel fine, Mum.”
“Youre simply not capable of assessing yourself,” she declared with authority. “Men never are, not until somethings properly wrong. Your father was the sameyou know how that ended.”
Tony stared at the checked blue-and-white tablecloth. Practical. Not a stain on it. Mum was right about that.
She set the bowl in front of him.
“Eat up before it cools. Buckwheat tonight, with beef. Your favourite.”
“Love buckwheat,” Tony said.
He spooned up. Mums soups were always perfect.
“Anthony,” she pressed, taking her seat with a cup of tea, “did you think about what I said? About Linda?”
Tony looked up.
“Didnt think.”
“Well, you should. Decent woman, widowed, owns her house. Inquired after you the other day.”
“Mum…”
“What? Youre forty-five now, Anthony. Its not rightman needs a woman, its just not natural otherwise.”
“I have a woman,” he blurted out, surprising himself.
“And where is this woman?”
“Nowhere.” He looked down. “Just means I dont need setting up with Linda. Ill sort myself out.”
“How? Sitting here, staring at your soup?” Mrs. Parker shook her head. “I know, son. Youre pining for her, for Becky. But why? She kicked you out. You know what they say about women like that”
“Mum,” he broke in, something steely in his voice that stopped her complaint.
Silence. The clock ticked. A blackbird chattered outside, stubbornly, late and loud.
“Eat up, love,” his mother said finally. “Who else will feed you, if not your mother?”
Tony eyed the soup.
It really was delicious. Shed always cooked wellcouldnt fault her there.
He scooped a mouthful and ate. He thought about that October, coming in tired and cross and moaning about the tablecloth, the bread, the stew. Mum, as shed always said, knew best.
But he knew now, it hadnt really been about the tablecloth. What was it about? He thought maybe now, finally, he was starting to grasp it. Too late, of coursealways too late, just like people who only understand things once its gone.
He was trapped. The word slipped into his mind and nearly made him drop his spoon. Trapped. Before, hed thought Becky was the jailerher food not right, her manners not right. In truth, shed never built a cage. Shed simply given way, over and over, until the bars were his, and hed carried them wherever he livedfirst at Mums, then in marriage, and now back again.
“Good, isnt it?” Mum prodded.
“Very, Mum,” Tony replied.
“There you go,” she said, satisfied. “You see, Anthony? Youd be lost without your mother.”
He didnt answer.
Outside, the blackbird shrieked. Spring tried to force its way in, a thread of sunlight sneaking through the curtains, entirely unwelcome in this winter room.
Tony hunched over his soup and finished it.
***
That same April evening, Becky stood on the balcony of the flat she and Alex now called home, watching the sun slip away. The baby made her clumsy, standing wasnt comfortable, but she stayed anyway, craving that crisp, evening air. Down below, the earth smelled of rain and something wild and green that you only notice in spring.
Inside, Alexs voice drifted from his studysorting a work call, calm as ever. Two mugs sat on the table by the orange lamp shed brought, ready for an evening cuppa.
She put her hand to her belly. The baby kickedgently, indolently, as evening babies do.
“Hello,” Becky whispered, to the dusk and the new life inside.
She was scared. She was content. She felt a quiet, unsettled, honest happinessno guarantees, no fairytale promises. Just this: the April sunset, the scent of damp earth, golden light behind her, and a tiny life, readying itself within.
Becky lingered a moment longer.
Then she stepped back inside.
