The House of Hidden Mothers Read Free

years of trying, and still knew nothing about his life. The discreet gold band confirmed a wife, presumably a family. How many children had he fathered, or helped create? How many women had sat here in this chair and received his judgement like a benediction or a curse?
    â€˜â€¦ very little point in pursuing IVF or any other kind of assisted reproduction. Even seeking donor eggs would not solve the issue of your inhospitable womb and the dangers of attempting to carry a child yourself.’
    An inhospitable womb! There, she had been looking for a title for her autobiography. It was a game she played with her girlfriends; every so often, usually when one of them was going through a particularly challenging life phase – rebellious children, a recalcitrant partner, money slipping through their fingers like mercury. So far her favourite title had come from Priya, who had proffered
In These Shoes?
Later on, Shyama found out that ‘In These Shoes’ was the title of a song, but still, coming from Priya at that moment, it had seemed like poetry.
    â€˜Of course, it is always your choice. You can get a second opinion, many women do. But the medical facts remain as they are. I am sorry.’
    â€˜So it’s me, then?’ Shyama exhaled. ‘I mean, I know Toby has passed all his tests with flying colours. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Thirty-four-year-old men, that’s their prime, isn’t it? And he loves red meat, though we try and limit the lamb chops to once a week. Or is it zinc you have to eat? Is that in eggs? Eggs have good cholesterol now, don’t they? And after all the warnings they gave us … so doctors can be wrong. You just find out way after the event, usually.’
    Mr Lalani let the silence settle, mote by mote, like fine dust. He had been here many times before. He knew not to argue or over-sympathize. He knew it is always best to let the woman – and it is almost invariably the woman – talk and cry and vent her rage at the world, at Nature who has betrayed her. At forty-eight, the betrayal was almost inevitable. Not that he would ever say that out loud.
    â€˜As I said, Mrs Shaw, please feel free to seek a second opinion, I assure you I won’t be offended. I just don’t want to raise your hopes and see you spend even more money.’
    â€˜Well, there’s not much more of it to be spent, I’m afraid!’ Shyama attempted a breezy chuckle, which sounded more like a ragged, repressed sob. ‘Toby’s got some temporary work, but he’s looking for something better …’
    She knew how this sounded. It sounded exactly as her mother and some others presumed it was. Silly older woman of modest means falls for predictably handsome younger man without a steady career. She gets an ego boost and unbounded energy in bed; he gets use of the house and the car, and the soft-mattress landing of her unspoken gratitude. He kisses the scars left from a disastrous marriage – there’s not much that youthful tenderness cannot mend. He says he loves her, he wants a life with her. Above all, he would love a child with her. He is kind towards her daughter – he treads that fine line between friend and guardian, but never tries to be her father. (She has one of those, occasional as he is.) There are only fifteen years between Toby and Tara – why on earth would she want to call him Daddy? Tara didn’t call her own father that.
    â€˜Mrs Shaw? Maybe you want to discuss this further with your husband before making any decisions? Perhaps you and Mr Shaw would like to make an appointment to come and see me together?’
    Shyama ought to tell him now – this gentle man who had navigated his way around her reproductive system like a zealous plumber, undaunted by the leaks, blockages and unexpected U-bends that confronted him – that she was not, in fact, Mrs Shaw. Never had been. That in a fit of misplaced modesty she had