The tale is one that has been whispered around the kitchen table for years, a reminder of how a child can become a bitter fruit in a marriage once thought unshakable.
When Eleanor first went into labour at St. Mary’s Hospital in Manchester, her husband never once set foot in the ward, nor did he bother to call. Her mother, Mrs. Whitaker, collected the newborn with a quiet, unceremonious haste.
Eleanor had, in her mind, prepared for such neglect; yet the sting remained, not for herselfshe had grown accustomed to slight during the pregnancybut for the tiny boy she had long awaited, the one she had hoped would usher the world into gentler terms for them both. She had clung to the hope that, when he finally arrived, her husband would look into his eyes, feel the blood that bound them, and recognise a piece of himself reflected there. He, however, turned his gaze away.
For twelve years they had lived together, and Eleanor could have sworn their souls had become one. Their age gapfifteen yearshad never seemed a barrier. She had met Arthur in the planning and finance department of the textile firm where she began work straight from university. He, a widower with a failed first marriage and no children, surrounded her with attention and care, courted her with a charm that felt almost cinematic, and soon they were wed. Eleanor swore she had hit the jackpot: a man who was intelligent, industrious, kind, handsome and, above all, fair.
The final trait of his character, however, cast a shadow over her days. Deep down she sensed that his heightened sense of justice made him something of a quarrelsome soul, but it was far too late to try to reshape him. He could not stay in one post for long; sometimes he fell out with a superior, sometimes he snapped at anyone regardless of rank, and at other times he refused to meet what he deemed unreasonable demands. He drifted from job to job, often spending months unemployed while Eleanor, steadfast and diligent, rose to deputy head of her department. Her salary, a respectable £45,000 a year, kept the household afloat.
Eleanor longed for a child, but nothing came. Doctors assured them both were healthy, yet the nursery remained empty. Despair settled over her like a thick fog, until, at last, a miracle happened. She glowed with joy as she told Arthur the news, but his reaction shattered her.
With a thinly veiled contempt he declared that he did not want the child at all. If only Id known earlier, he muttered, Im fifty now; I have no wish to become a youngatheart dad and be the subject of ridicule. I want a peaceful old age. He went on, Do you realise what youre doing? Youre condemning this family to poverty. I barely earn enough to keep us both fed. Its no longer my place to chase extra work at my age.
Arthur gave Eleanor an ultimatum: abandon the baby, and he would cast her out without hesitation, for the flat was his to keep.
The words crushed her. After twelve years of shared life, to hear such coldness was a blow she had never imagined. She had sensed his aversion to children before, but to hear it spoken so bluntly about their own son was a revelation and a collapse of every hope for a happy household.
She tried in vain to reach his conscience, but his constant jibescalling her foolish, reveling in her ill health, blaming her for feeling unwellonly deepened the wound. With no support from her husband, Eleanor moved in with her mother. Arthur vanished as if he had never existed; he did not call, did not appear, and just before the babys birth she received a summons to court: he had filed for divorce. The hearing was postponed, but the separation loomed inevitable.
Eleanor never regretted defying Arthur and bringing her son into the world. He may have wanted a tranquil twilight, and perhaps he will have it, but she, still young, could raise her child on her own.
Thus the story lives on: a child became the apple of discord. While many claim that offspring cement a marriage, this tale shows that, sometimes, they can tear it asunder.
