*”The Clocks Ticking”*
“So what do we suggest, Doctor?” Lucys voice trembled. Years of tests, tears, and hopenow here they were, facing the final verdict from a renowned specialist.
“What do you do? You live. Or” His gaze flicked from her to Alex. “Find another partner. Youre nearly forty, love. The clocks ticking. You *can* have a childjust likely not with him.”
Professor Steins bluntness was infamous. Colleagues called it unprofessional; patients, cruel. But for Dr. Mark Stein, it was the only kindness he knewsparing people years of false hope.
“You dont believe in miracles, then?” Lucy asked. “No chance at all?”
“Theres always a chance. But I believe in statistics,” Stein said flatly. “And theyre merciless. Better a bitter truth than a sweet lie stealing your last fertile years. Try new treatments if you want, but the truth? Youre both healthy. Unexplained infertility often has psychological roots. Figure it out.”
Lucy had heard Stein was harsh. But hearing it herself? Different.
Silence hung heavy in the car. The words *”find another husband”* lingered like poison. She studied Alexthe man shed weathered every storm with. Leave him? After all theyd built? For a *maybe* with a stranger? Unthinkable.
“Maybe its karma,” Alex muttered. “All those years we didnt *want* kids, just focused on money”
“Dont,” Lucy cut in. “We have each other. Honestly? Im tired of *trying*. Lets just *live*. Were happy as we are.”
Alex squeezed her hand.
Ten years together. Not just marriedpartners in every sense. Their “child” had been their business: the late nights, the first posh car, the London flat. Success was their family.
After Steins verdict, Lucy exhaled. They adopted two cats (long delayed for a phantom baby), bought a cottage in Surrey, and let go. Fate knew best, they decided.
Theneighteen months latertwo pink lines.
Oliver arrived. Lucy became the textbook-perfect mum; Alex, the devoted provider. From the outside? A rock-solid marriage, crowned with their miracle. But rocks crumblenot from quakes, but slow, seeping erosion.
Lucy was five years older. At 22, Alex had been her protégé, their bond built on ambition. Shed always led; hed followed. Infertility had knit them closerbut also buried a quiet grief. And once Oliver came? They werent lovers anymore. Just parents.
***
The day it happened was ordinary. A routine doctors visit. Fluorescent lights, antiseptic smells. Alex sat with Oliver, zoning outuntil *she* walked in. A woman with a six-year-old. Not stunning, but buzzing with restless energy. Their eyes locked. Neither looked away.
“Dad?” Oliver tugged his sleeve.
Alex jolted. “Nothing, mate.”
At the water fountain, their glances met again. He said three words. That was all it tooka lightning strike, incinerating his past.
Her name was Emma. They talked for an hour. Shared stories of marriages that suffocated, lives slipping by. Not attraction*recognition*.
Two weeks later, Alex came home late. Lucy waited, dinner cooling.
“Alex, Oliver missed you”
He stood in the doorway, coat still on. “Lucy. We need to talk.”
Her stomach dropped. “Whats wrong?”
“I met someone.” His voice cracked. “And I realised our whole lifes been a lie. A *comfortable* lie.”
Lucy froze. The room tilted.
“*What?* We have a *son*”
“I havent *breathed* in fifteen years!” he burst out. “I functioned. Played husband, fatherbut I wasnt *alive*. Now? Now I am.”
“And me?” she whispered, tears falling. “Our love? Oliver? Was *none* of it real?”
“I thought it was love,” he said tiredly. “Turns out? Habit. Duty. I cant pretend anymore.”
The door slammed. Lucy sat amid untouched plates, the kitchen clock ticking.
*The clocks ticking, love.* Steins ghostly echo.
***
Alex left. Abandoned home, family, history. Moved to Edinburgh with Emma and her son, leaving Lucy with a shattered heart and a five-year-old asking when Daddys coming back.
The first months were hell. Lucy moved mechanicallyfeeding Oliver, crying into pillows, raging at the ruins of her “perfect” life.
Then one night, tucking him in, she didnt say *”Daddys working.”* She said, *”Hell live somewhere else. But he loves you.”* Speaking to herself, too. Time to grow up.
She chopped her hair, went blonde, dug out her old degree. Signed up for a course. The world, once shrunk to playgrounds, expanded again.
There, she ran into Jamesher secondary-school crush. Divorced, his daughter with his ex. No grand romancejust coffee, walks, laughing over old teachers. With him, Lucy could be *herself*: tired, unpolished, *real*.
***
They married quietly. No fuss. Just a registry office, then a drive to the countryside with Oliver.
James never tried to replace Alex. He helped with homework, fixed bikes, taught Oliver to fish. Steady. Unassuming. Slowly, Lucys wounds scarred over.
At 43, when she learned she was pregnant, she braced for *”the clocks ticking”* remarks. James just held her. *”Well manage. Together.”*
The birth was gruelling. Afterwards, the midwife smiled. *”Second baby after forty? Brave.”*
“Not brave,” Lucy murmured, gazing at her daughter. *”Just with a different man.”*
***
Three years later, dropping her daughter at nursery, Lucy bumped into Alex.
“You look well,” he said. “Heard things are good.”
“They are,” she said simply. *”Properly good.”*
That afternoon, on impulse, she looked up Professor Mark Stein. Still practising. A legend.
She walked into his office. Hed hardly aged.
“You wont remember me. Years ago, you told me to leave my husband to have a child.”
Stein frowned, bracing for anger.
“I came to thank you,” Lucy said, smiling. No bitterness. “Your truth shattered my world then. I didnt listenbut life found its own way. You helped me more than you knew.”
Stein nodded. After she left, he stared out the window. Of course he didnt recall her. After forty years, patients blurredonly diagnoses stuck.
Outside, Lucy took her daughters hand. For the first time in years, *”the clocks ticking”* didnt sting. Just gratitudefor both her lives. The one with Alex, and this one, *real*, with James. Both shaped her. Both mattered.
