In Another Life

Children

Now it's his turn. He asks about her family. Her sister. Her health. About which nook of the world, she was living in now.

//

They once joked that they would never work out together, simply because they were too vastly differently. She was a nomad, in constant need of the next adventure, the next airplane ticket; and he – he was a Family Car guy, a two-storey suburban house sort of man.

It had been funny then, but in retrospect, it seemed so haunting.

Perhaps they had been doomed, too incongruous from the start – and maybe they had both seen this but pretended not to. Like all humans do when calculating the risk of an event they so wish to happen, they too, had underestimated.

//

To many of his questions, she had no definite answer.

Was she going to settle down in the UK?

Maybe.

Would she move back to Australia?

Someday, it depends.

Was she married?

No, but she might.

To prove her commitment to her current partner, to prove that she had indeed 'matured', progressed if you will, from that 17-year-old girl who couldn't bear the thought of a relationship lasting more than three weeks, she pointed out with a sort of a triumphant smile, that she was here now, looking for Christmas present for Mark (her current partner) – they had been together nine months now and in her eyes, that was an eternity.

She had met him back in March – and this to her, seemed an excellent omen, for it was her favourite month, not simply because of her birthday, but because it brought in autumn. After the long months of unrelenting heat, autumn was a merciful breeze, it was the kind soft rain – the start of the hibernation months, a place to rest one's bones.

And he had been exactly that, a soft patch of grass after years of harsh bitumen and gravel.

She hadn't felt a magnetic pull, and when they laid together, the world didn't feel like it was crashing around them. But perhaps she had fantasied this 'spark', this chemistry, this collision of souls– after all, she had only been 18 when she met him, and as she got older, she began to realise, maybe it was all imaginary.

But Mark made her smile, and she made him laugh – what more could she want?

Perhaps it wasn't love. But they were happy.

They were kind to one another, and she felt safe, with him.

And what about kids?

She winced as he asked. He knew it would hurt her and some perverse part of him wanted her to. It almost felt like justice, for all the years of pain she had caused him.

No, no kids, not yet.

She wanted to tell him that he had been the only man she'd been sure of. The only man, with whom matrimony didn't sound like a death sentence. Perhaps she had read too many Sylvia Plath novels, but the whole concept of marriage and matrimony and childbearing seemed as claustrophobic and frightening as a prison cell.

She didn't want to be patronised, to be walked on, to be spat on, to be cheated on, to be 'accidentally' pushed or hit. She didn't want to feel inferior, didn't want to compromise, didn't want to feel worthless staring at her phone at 1am in the night, wondering which bar her husband was at, or what sort of woman he was kissing.

She would never have kids with another man, because she didn't want to despise her children, for inevitability stealing her freedom and chaining her to the endless piles of dirty dishes and an eternal scrubbing of the kitchen floor.

Her friends and family had tried to convince her, persuade her, and reason with her – that not all men were like this.

Some were kind and caring and listened to you. But with those 'nice' sort of men, she had never found the spark.

It never felt natural, it never felt easy, never felt right – the way it did with him.

But she didn't tell him that. She gave him a cool, nonchalant, even blasé sort of 'no' – as if she couldn't care less whether she had kids or not.

But she didn't tell him of the nights she cried herself to sleep after holding her sister's baby.

She knew she was getting old – she was 31 next March. And the possibility of a baby seemed further and further away.

The irony of it was, that she had always loved children, even when she was little. She loved how the back of their necks smelled like milk, how their cheeks felt like rose petals, and how you never got tired of holding them. She remembered holding her baby cousin once, and yearning for one of her own. Because even though her shoulder hurt, even though her arms were nearly numb with exhaustion, it was all worth it – when they muzzled their soft heads into the crook of your neck and rested their tiny heads there. Feeling the soft warmth on her shoulder, and the slow breathing as the baby drifted off to sleep, with one tiny fist wrapped around the woman's neck – that was the moment she knew she wanted to be a mother.

But – she had never met the right person.

And she knew from experience, that the only thing worse than not having a kid is having one with someone you don't love and raising them in a household devoid of warmth and affection.

She didn't want her kids to grow up cynical and wary of love – like she did. 

//

Although she hasn't said it aloud, the man knows it's him. The one whose children she wanted to have. The woman was stubborn like that – once she'd set her mind on something, it was hard changing it.

He didn't feel angry anymore. Merely sad.

It felt unfair.

He felt he had been robbed.

He was right for her, and she was right for him.

But the timing never struck chord.

And now, in the end, they were just another pair of star-crossed lovers.

And to anyone else, all they will ever be is a pair of strangers in a Target store.

They won't be remembered. Their grandchildren won't point them out in albums and talk about how much they loved each other.