The End is Where We Begin by Maria Goodin (open ebook .txt) 📕

those weeks ago I thought she’d lost her humour, her softness.

“I feel like I’m just counting the days until this baby arrives safely,” Stu says.

I nod, knowing so many of us feel the same way. Everyone who frequents the Canal House is rooting for this unborn child.

“You know what the worst thing is?” Stu muses. “I wasn’t even sure I wanted this baby. How bad is that? It was all Irena. She was the one who wanted to get pregnant. I was having fun just the two of us. I thought we had all the time in the world. I had to really force myself into it, you know? Force myself to face the fact that I’m forty-three years old, that I need to grow up. And that we don’t have all the time in the world. No one does. When she was rushed into hospital, I really thought…”

He trails off with a deep sigh, and I shudder at the memory of Stu’s text coming through from the hospital. For a while there it wasn’t just the baby who was at risk. There was a point where it looked like neither of them might make it.

I’m about to tell him that I understand. Not only about the guilt of not wanting your unborn child, but about the fear of losing someone you love more than life itself. I want to tell him that I completely get it if he doesn’t want to ever risk a similar experience again, that I’m right there with him. Why would you ever want to make yourself vulnerable to that kind of fear and pain? But it turns out that’s not what he’s saying.

“It made me realise you have to grab life by both hands. Now, I want everything. I want to marry Irena, have more children, buy this bar in Spain that she’s always talking about.”

He looks up at the sky.

“I nearly lost her, mate. I nearly lost both of them. All the things we’re gonna do, all the experiences that – God willing – we’re gonna have. They almost didn’t happen. They were almost over before they’d even started.”

He shakes his head as if he can’t fathom it. His eyes suddenly look watery. He sniffs.

“Anyway,” he says, standing up and draining his mug, “I can’t sit here and talk shit with you all morning. I’ll go get the stuff for the tip.”

I make a move to stand, but he waves his hand dismissively.

“You finish your coffee,” he says, “I’ll bring it downstairs. There’s nothing too heavy and her majesty’s probably still in her dressing gown. She hates to be seen without her face on. Makes people think she’s human.”

When he’s gone, I think about Stu’s words.

All the experiences that we’re gonna have. They almost didn’t happen…

If Josh had died that night in hospital, what would never have happened? What wonderful experiences would have never been?

The incredible history that Josh and I have shared sometimes feels like a story that belongs to someone else. Occasionally I catch glimpses of the good times – those magical, happy memories – but they’re vague and fleeting, like a TV set with terrible reception. I have a sense I could tune that TV – relive the beautiful, meaningful moments – but somehow it’s felt easier, safer, not to.

And yet I remember the horror of that night in hospital like it was yesterday. Everything from the smell of the corridors to the squeak of my trainers on the floor and the colour of the plastic seats. I also remember the stress of those early years, constantly struggling, rushing between work and school, always late, always stressed, always broke. I remember being exhausted, frustrated, impatient, feeling like I was never good enough.

But that’s not the whole story. And if I can take a moment, just a couple of minutes, to fiddle with the dial on that TV set, I know there’s so much more to see.

I close my eyes, feeling the sun’s gentle warmth against my skin, and I remember…

I remember arms around my neck at bedtime, excited chatter because the tooth fairy might be coming for the first time. I remember him running down the football pitch to give me a high five when he scored his first club goal. I remember the manic sound of his laughter when I used to tickle him, cuddling up together inside a den made of sheets and pillows, hours spent building Lego together, the first time we went cycling in the Peak District and my amazement that my little boy was now big enough and strong enough to keep up with me.

Despite the tears, the demands, the fear and the exhaustion, it’s all been so precious. And I wouldn’t give away one single minute of it.

As the memories flood through me, one after another, like a packed closet that’s suddenly had its doors flung open, I realise that every day has been worth both the risk of having him and the risk of losing him.

For so long I’ve dwelled on what I’ve done wrong, all the mistakes I’ve made and the ways I haven’t been good enough. But look at my son. Look at how he’s turned out, how I’ve helped him grow.

You’ve done okay, Dad.

And my closest friendship, sustained over so many years despite all the challenges…

You’ve been the greatest friend I could ever wish for.

When did I stop believing in myself? When did I stop feeling good enough?

Because it’s not true.

I might not have it all together. I might flounder sometimes, I might struggle at others, but I can love and I can be loyal. I can have someone’s back for as long as it takes. I can be brave and I can step up to the mark.

I remember Libby’s words that evening in her attic room.

It’s not a house I want, it’s a home.

Maybe, just maybe, I can be everything she needs.

Maybe I already am.

Chapter 26

Running

Ever since meeting with Max’s parents I’ve been feeling things