walked towards it, pausing beside her. ‘We’d make a good couple,’ he said. ‘We’d have each other and Nicky. Maybe a child of our own one day.’
A smothered cry came from her. ‘Go! Go, Anatole, and leave me alone!’
She closed the door on him, not caring that she’d all but pushed him out. Only when the lock clicked, cutting out the sound of his footsteps on the gravelled drive, muffling the sound of his car door slamming, the engine starting, did she turn, leaning back on the closed front door, shutting him out—out of her house, out of her life.
A child of our own...
That muffled cry came again. That was what she had longed for so long ago—before the glowing fairy dust she’d sprinkled over her life had turned to bitter ashes.
Slowly, bleakly, she headed upstairs to kiss her sleeping son a silent goodnight.
The only person she could love.
Could allow herself to love.
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