The counseling sessions began with promise. There were tears, confessions, apologies, and even laughter when they least expected it. For a few weeks, it felt like the ice between them was beginning to thaw.
But the truth of infertility hung over them like storm clouds. Especially after the options were laid out plainly—IVF with uncertain success, surrogacy, or adoption.
Lena, though scared, was open. She saw a future in each possibility. She wanted to keep trying. To love something that was theirs, even if not born of their bodies.
But Theo...
Theo recoiled.
Not visibly, not rudely. But every time a doctor or counselor brought up a new path, he grew quieter, colder.
"I don't want someone else carrying our child," he said once, almost under his breath.
Lena blinked. "Why not?"
"I just... can't."
She pressed further. "Then adoption?"
He rubbed his temple. "It doesn't feel right to me."
That night, she sat alone in the dark, scrolling through stories of couples who made it through. She wanted to believe they could be one of them.
Theo, meanwhile, left the room, said he needed air, and didn't return until after midnight.
This became a pattern.
One Thursday, Lena stood in their kitchen reheating leftovers. Theo had said he was working late. But when she called the office, his assistant mentioned he'd left hours ago.
Her stomach twisted.
By 1:00 a.m., he returned. The stench of whiskey clung to him like a confession.
He wouldn't meet her eyes.
"Theo…" she whispered. "Where were you?"
He staggered past her, muttering, "Don't do this tonight."
"No. We are doing this tonight."
He turned, and something in his face—shame? sorrow?—froze her heart.
"Did you sleep with someone?" she asked, her voice barely a breath.
His silence roared in her ears.
"No," he said finally. "But... I wasn't alone."
She backed away like he'd slapped her.
"What do you mean?"
He closed his eyes. "I was drunk. I didn't think. It just—she was there. I didn't sleep with her. But I crossed a line."
He confessed to making out with a woman he met at a bar. She was likely a prostitute—someone who offered comfort with no strings, no judgment, no emotional weight.
"I just wanted to feel something," he said. "Something simple. Not all this pain."
Lena felt like the air had been punched from her lungs.
"You broke us," she said, her voice shaking. "Not infertility. Not the treatments. You."
"I know," he whispered, tears finally falling. "And I hate myself for it."
She didn't sleep that night. She barely breathed.
The next morning, Theo was gone. A note on the counter said he'd gone to stay at a hotel "to give her space."
But space was the last thing Lena needed. What she needed was answers.
How do you forgive the person you love for hurting you in your weakest moment?
How do you trust them again when they've already left—emotionally, physically—even just for a night?
Lena hadn't opened the bookstore that morning.
She sat behind the counter, still in the clothes from last night, staring blankly at the small crack in the tile near the door—one she'd never really noticed until now.
The bell above the entrance chimed, breaking her trance. She looked up slowly.
Mr. Carrick stepped in, carrying his usual reusable tote and a folded newspaper under one arm.
His eyes immediately found hers.
He took one long look—her disheveled hair, the dark circles under her eyes, the stiffness in her shoulders—and set the paper aside.
"I don't need to ask how you're doing," he said gently, walking toward the counter.
Lena tried to muster a smile. Failed.
He didn't press. Just placed his hand over hers and squeezed.
"Want to talk?" he asked.
And for some reason—maybe because he'd always been a quiet, steady presence in her life, the kind of customer who read slowly and paid attention to people even slower—she nodded.
Tears came before the words did. Then the words came all at once.
"I think he broke us. And I don't know if we can come back from it."
Mr. Carrick listened without interruption as Lena poured out the full story: the infertility struggle, the weight of Theo's silence, the confession about the other woman.
When she finished, her voice hoarse, her hands shaking, he didn't gasp or frown.
Instead, he asked quietly, "Do you still love him?"
She didn't answer right away.
Then finally—softly—"Yes. And I hate that I do."
Mr. Carrick leaned back in the wooden chair by the front window, folding his arms.
"You know," he began, "my wife and I lost our second child. A little boy. Stillborn."
Lena's breath caught.
"She disappeared into her grief. And I disappeared into mine. We were both so lost, and for months we lived like shadows in the same house. Until one day, she sat beside me, handed me a piece of paper, and said, 'I forgive you.' I didn't even know what I had done. But I had let her drift away. And she knew I needed someone to forgive me before I could forgive myself."
He looked at her steadily. "Theo's mistake is real. But so is his pain. You don't owe him forgiveness right now. Maybe not ever. But you owe yourself the right to decide from a place of strength, not shock."
Lena wiped a tear. "And what if I never trust him again?"
"Then you leave with your dignity. But if there's still something worth holding on to, you rebuild it brick by brick. Slowly. Honestly. With eyes wide open."
She nodded, barely.
That night, as the shop closed and she turned off the lights, Lena stood in the quiet space surrounded by her books, her memories, and her pain—and made a promise.
She would not be defined by betrayal.
She would decide her future. Not grief. Not Theo. Not infertility.
That evening, Lena couldn't go home.
Not to the silence. Not to the scent of him still on the pillows. Not to the crumpled note on the counter that read like an apology and an escape.
She found herself walking. Nowhere in mind. Just away.
By the time she stopped, she stood outside a quiet upscale bar a few blocks from the bookstore. She'd passed it countless times. Never gone in. It always seemed too elegant, too polished—like something for people whose lives didn't unravel at the seams.
But tonight, she stepped inside.
The place was dimly lit and tasteful. Velvet booths, jazz humming low through speakers, soft clinking of glasses. It wasn't crowded—just scattered professionals unwinding after long days.
She slipped into a seat at the bar.
"Just a glass of red," she told the bartender.
She didn't plan to stay long. She only needed a moment. To breathe. To stop thinking.
But minutes later, a voice spoke beside her.
"Rough day?"
She turned. The man was striking—tall, sharp features, expensive watch glinting under the bar lights. Not in an arrogant way, but with the air of someone used to being in control.
His suit was crisp. His smile easy.
Lena nodded slightly. "Something like that."
"Same here," he said. "My business partner tried to sell a pitch without telling me. Two hours of smiling through teeth."
She chuckled softly.
"I'm Daniel," he offered, extending a hand.
"Lena."
They shook. His grip was firm, warm.
They talked. Just surface things at first—what they did, favorite vacation spots, how the city was too fast and too lonely sometimes.
But he was good at listening. And she, in her fragile state, found herself letting the tension go—for just a moment.
"You have this calm about you," he said. "But I can tell something's weighing on you."
Lena tilted her glass, watching the red swirl. "Life's complicated."
"Amen to that."
It wasn't flirting exactly. More like understanding between strangers. The kind that passes in low-lit spaces when hearts are sore and time stands still.
After a while, she checked her phone. Still no message from Theo. Not even a question about where she was.
Daniel noticed the shift in her face.
"Boyfriend trouble?"
"Husband," she corrected. "And yes."
He gave a small nod. Didn't pry. Just looked at her for a moment—genuinely. Kindly.
"Well," he said, standing, "I'm heading out. But this has been a good conversation, Lena."
"It has."
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a card.
"If you ever want to talk again—not like this, maybe over coffee—give me a call."
She hesitated.
Then took it.
They smiled one last time, and Daniel left, disappearing into the night like he was never meant to stay.
Lena remained at the bar, staring at the card.
Her heart was heavy. Her mind cluttered.
But she hadn't done anything wrong. Not tonight.
Still, when she walked home alone, she cried quietly into the collar of her coat—not just for Theo, but for the girl she used to be. The one who believed love was simple and forever was easy.
She tucked the card into her drawer when she got home.
She didn't know what tomorrow would bring.
But tonight, she had survived.