It's been a while since I've posted on this site, sorry about that. You can find all my fics on my Wordpress blog:

Chapter One

Shelagh pulled the last of the laundered shirts from the wash tub, her morning following its usual pattern. Routine centered her. As a nun, the repeated daily ritual of prayer and service had for a very long time provided tranquility and peace of mind. Then, after she emerged from her wilderness of the soul, ready to enter a new life, she discovered that a new routine could be just as much a part of that serenity.

This morning, she found no such harmony in her daily chores. Despite all her efforts, Shelagh could not force the memory of last night's interview to the back of her brain. Still stunned by its disastrous outcome, she found it difficult to remember exactly what had happened. Only impressions of moments came to her mind, disconnected images and words that jeopardized the life she thought she was living.

Last night, her dreams came tumbling down around her ears. The adoption interview quickly shifted from a pleasant formality to a devastating revelation of secrets. Shelagh's heart clenched as the terrible words came back to her: Northfield Military Psychiatric Hospital.

She snapped a shirt in the air, uncaring of the droplets that sprayed her clean walls. Had Patrick ever intended to tell her of his time there? What other secrets was he keeping from her?

Anger rose in Shelagh's heart. After she had confronted him, Patrick had fled the flat, not to return until late in the evening, long after his wife and son had retired. This morning, few words were exchanged, no real attempts at communication were made.

"He think's I'm a child," Shelagh told herself angrily as she hung her husband's shirts to dry. "Not a partner, not an equal." She roughly shaped the collar. "He doesn't trust me!" Bitter tears stung her eyes, refusing to be shed.

Adrenaline coursed through her veins, building up an energy that needed to be released. The washing was done quickly, too quickly, and Shelagh searched for something to occupy her hands, and by extension, her thoughts. The preparations for the interview left little to be done, and she glared at the pristine flat.

She had to get out. She glanced down at her comfortable dress and apron and made a decision. She would get out of the house, even if just to do the shopping. If Patrick could avoid their home, then so could she.

In their bedroom, her eyes avoided his side of the bed. She hadn't needed to do much to make the bed this morning. Anger had kept her still in her sleepless state, and Patrick must have found his rest on the sofa.

Her grey suit would do. She felt very in control in the grey suit. Dressed, her hair in its controlled updo, she automatically reached for her jewelry box for a brooch. Her fingers stopped, and she snapped it closed. There would be no need for jewelry today.

Polished heels clicked sharply against the pavement as Shelagh briskly walked to the shops. Timothy needed some more pencils, and the boy seemed to lose at least a pair of socks a week. He was so very helpful, perhaps she would surprise him with a chocolate bar when he returned from school.

Part of her mind reviewed Patrick's requests in the past few days. No, there was nothing pressing he needed, and she tried to dismiss him from her mind. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, she decided. She was not an errand-girl, there to fetch and care for him. Let him get his own things.

The bell tinkled as she stepped into the corner shop. The early morning rush was over, and the proprietor, always an admirer of the lovely Mrs. Turner, had a moment to spend.

"Good Morning, Mrs. Turner! Always a pleasure to see you. How may I be of assistance today?" His eyes were clever and used the moment she turned to the news racks to admire her figure.

"I'll need some pencils and a bar of that chocolate. The big one, if you please." Her purse clicked open.

"As you wish, Mrs. Turner. I saw that Timothy of yours the other day. He'll be startin' to sprout any day now." The newsagent leaned over the counter. "I must say, Mrs. Turner, that boy's lucky to have you. All that nasty stuff in the past, he's as right as rain now. Well done."

Shelagh blushed. "Why...thank you, Mr. Morris. We're very proud of Timothy, he's worked so terribly hard."

"And he couldn't have done it without you. Dr. Turner, neither. Never saw a man so changed for the better in so little time."

At the sound of Patrick's name, Shelagh felt herself stiffen again and the sense of dread in her gut re-awakened.

"Would you be wantin' a packet of cigarettes for Dr. Turner, then ma'am?" Mr. Morris snapped open a paper sack.

"No." Shelagh heard the sharpness to her voice. This wouldn't do, she thought. She mustn't behave as if she weren't in control of her feelings. "No, thank you, Mr. Morris. No cigarettes today."

The sky was too bright when she stepped from the dim shop, forcing Shelagh to squint to see. She turned away from home and walked towards the river. The news agent's words rang in her ears. No. She didn't want to think of how Patrick needed her.

Indeed.

Of course he needed her. She ran his home, she supported him, she took care of him so that he could focus on his own concerns.

She was the perfect footrest. And then, at the end of the day, if he cared to show her some attention, she was content to give him what he wanted.

It was her job to make sure Patrick was happy and she was very good at her job.

She pressed her lips together in frustration. She didn't ask for much. She certainly didn't ask for the trinkets and gewgaws he bought for her. A sunflower brooch, how ridiculous! She was from Scotland, not Spain, for heaven's sake. A thistle would've been a better choice. At the time, she'd been touched by his words of explanation: "You're like the sun to me, my love."

He was just giving her a treat, a shiny object to keep her happy. How had she been so wrong?

The pavement took her to the quay's edge and she leant against the rails. The closeness she thought they shared now seemed so very shallow. Clearly, Patrick did not have faith in her. He cared for her, he even loved her, but he was not prepared to share himself with her. To have left such a thing untold, to have kept such a part of him from her, he must not have cared. Not for her as a partner, not for the baby they might have raised.

Shelagh felt the ball of dread burst into a hot anger. There it was. Patrick had kept secrets, and his lack of trust had robbed her of her last chance to have a child. For the first time since that dreadful moment, Shelagh felt tears on her cheeks.

Her hands clenched tightly around the railing, searching for purchase. She had left everything behind, abandoned her whole life for this man. Had she been blind the whole time? Why on earth would he, at fifty, with a son nearly grown, want to start again? He must have thought he had dodged a bullet when her diagnosis came through.

She could picture it. Mr. Horringer's news must have come as a relief, which Patrick was quick to hide during her convalescence. But soon, much sooner than she had expected, he had moved on. "Put it away, Shelagh,"he said of the nightdress. "Put it away, out of sight."

Her heart ached to think how he must have recoiled from the subject of adoption. How he must have lied again when he encouraged her to pursue the idea.

"How could he not have told me?" Hours later, she was still stunned. Could he think she would possibly let this rest? Did he know her so little?

Shelagh stopped and turned away from the river. She wiped the angry tears from her face, glad she had used only a minimum of mascara that morning. It wouldn't do to be seen with a smudged face. She took a deep breath and headed home.