Walking down the High Street with DH, past the sixth estate agents, I casually remarked that it had taken us a really long time to buy our first flat together. Two years in total.

In fact, I said, it always seemed to take us a really long time to do anything.

DH said that he’d been prepared to buy the first flat we saw but that I’d been cautious, saying we should wait, that there’d be better ones out there. There weren’t, he said, do you remember?

We carried on walking, past the bakery and a newsagent and a supermarket.

It took you eight years to propose marriage to me, I said. Now I’m here, nearly thirty five, and running out of eggs.

I wanted a baby before we got married. You’ve always known that, he said.

I wanted to get married first though, I said. You’ve always know that. I was scared that if we had a baby first you might just up and leave me with nothing to raise the child… but I didn’t say that.

Well that’s fine, he said, we did it your way, we got married. Happily, I might add. And then I wanted to start a family right after that, do you remember? But we delayed, because you said you wanted to have some time to write.

I actually just wanted some time for us to be married, if you remember, I said. And yes, writing is important to me, it took me until three years ago to realise that. Is it so wrong to have wanted to get a head start before babies distracted me? You’ve known what you wanted to do since you were a child, and furthermore you’re a man which means you’ll never have to experience the physical distractions of pregnancy and early motherhood. You try breastfeeding and writing a romantic comedy at the same time.

I stepped onto the road, making way for a pram, needing to raise my voice for DH to hear me.

And anyway, I said, while we’re on the subject of delay, when we did eventually start trying, you wasted nine months pig headedly denying that your bad lifestyle had any connection with your sperm count.

It was the High Street on a Saturday afternoon. I felt a glance, a look, a few glances maybe. I didn’t give a shit who they were.

It came as quite a surprise to you, I continued, when a specialist told you that your excessive eating and drinking were dramatically decreasing our chances of conception. I’d been telling you that for months and you didn’t ever listen to me. Do you remember all that? Do you remember? I said. I do.

We turned a corner and walked into the park. It was empty. Eerily empty for a Saturday.

I blame you.

I blame you.

I blame myself for losing your child, I said.

Don’t, he said. Your body was just the venue where the decision was made. That is all.

We’re quite a team, he said. If only we didn’t respect each other’s wishes so goddam much we’d have been married at 25 with six children, jobs at the local supermarket and cake for dinner every night.

I don’t blame you for hoping for the life you always wanted for yourself, I said.

I don’t blame you, either, he said.

I love you.

I love you, too.

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