I believe it started with a phone call. Joe had called me, to arrange for us to meet up. He said he wanted to talk things out. I must admit, I was surprised. It was unusual for him to take the first step. When we were together, he always seemed detached, safe in his cocoon of logic. I have always had to force him to do things. He would participate, unwillingly at first, but after a while, like a child, he would get into the moment and become enthusiastic.
The detachment was no obstacle, but from the time Jed Parry called that night, he grew ever more distant. This distance grew into a wide ravine, which neither of us dared to traverse. With each new act, like his reading of my letters, made the sides crumble into the depths below.
With his phone call, I felt an urge to answer him. Perhaps, it was to obtain some kind of closure. Something I could not get with my last letter.
We arranged to meet at a coffee house in the capital, which we used to frequent between breaks from our respective employments. It was a small place, with a view of the busy city central on one side, and the calm Thames on the other.
I remembered sitting there, by the round table, with Joe on the other side. I remembered looking out the window at the people across the road, wondering if they were troubled by things in their lives, if they had similar problems. I remembered how forlorn Joe looked; it reminded me so much of a child's face, when they realise they could not have something they want. I had wanted to stretch out my hand and caress his face, but that ravine was still as wide, just as vast.
We stayed at that table well into the evening and to the shop's closing time. We went over the turmoil of the past month, of how Parry had changed him. Joe had grown paranoid and ransacked my study. Then he went and bought a gun without my knowledge!
He carefully explained that I had abandoned him, and that I doubted his interpretation of situation. I admit that I erred in judgment of Parry, but like I mentioned in my letter, I believed that we could have diverted Parry from the murderous route he ended up taking.
At the end of it, we both knew that our love was something that was not easily thrown away. Our presence there was confirmation of that. We promised to slowly return back to the way we were, but promised each other that we would discuss our problems and be more open. The foundations were laid.
We started anew, like a newborn baby, ready to learn, to be cared for and feel protected. It was as if we were dating for the first time again. There is no more powerful an aphrodisiac than new love. This time however, we escaped most of the pitfalls of our earlier relationship.
We talked more, and listened to each other. From the day-to-day mediocrity of our lives to our own emotional problems, we discussed openly and properly, like we had promised. About each other; we talked safe in the knowledge we understood each other. However, this would eventually lead to a crisis point.
Before Parry and our subsequent break-up, we had a baby room. We still have the baby room actually. It was always and still is empty. We both called it the baby room, but there was never a child to give it life. God-children and children of friends would make brief visits, but it was not the permanent home of a little life that would have to be nurtured and taught, the safe haven from outside menaces, and the place where fun and laughter prevailed.
We would always have conversations about children; their wonderfully cute features, how they should be raised properly, how miraculously they seem to grow. Everything, though, was a way of skimming around the fact I can't have children.
This came to the fore one evening. We were sitting in front of the TV, cuddled together, watching a programme about whether a child's smile was inherent, or learnt from their parents.
He made an off-hand comment on how nice it would be if we had a child of our own to study. I replied that if we had a child, we wouldn't study them, but instead care for them and look after them, like normal parents.
This started that rocky journey to the core problem of our relationship. You can hear so many times from friends and family, how marriages often don't succeed despite the couple's unfailing love, you begin to wonder, was it because they had no children?
And here we were, in a childless relationship. Why does Joe choose to stay with me, want to stay with me? I can't offer him the prospect of a child. I assume men must also want to pass their legacy on, and Joe is getting older.
That night, was the night we decided to take fate by the reins. We chose to adopt a child. It was Joe, who had put forward the idea. It was his logical solution to our crisis. I suppose that side of him never changes, and I love that side of him. I've never told him, but when he gets serious; he makes a cute face. I just want to take a picture and keep it in my pocket always, it's so enduring.
The notion to adopt was slow to pass into agreement. Despite us both wanting a child, we were reluctant to give in to the fact that I couldn't do what I was naturally born to do. When we did agree, we threw our full enthusiasm behind it. We started asking around, firstly with our friends who had adopted before. We met them when their boy was twelve years old, and we would have never realised that he was adopted if they had not told us beforehand. Their boy looked just like them; he had the same eyes as the mother and nose of the father. Joe, when I told him this, scoffed and informed me that not only was it impossible because they weren't related by blood, even if they spent a lifetime together, a person's body wouldn't impersonate someone else's. I kindly informed him that I liked the idea that a child, no matter their genetic heritage, takes after the people who brought them up.
The adoption process was complicated, to the point where I wanted to scream out loud my frustration. Even Joe, his wisdom in logic, could only vaguely grasp the idea. There were many different agencies, state and private, as well as different kinds of adoption. There was also the paperwork we had to handle once we were decided.
Going through profiles, we saw children who had been abandoned by their parents, had been abused, or orphaned. Each seemed to be sadder than the last. I never realised how many children are out there, all alone with no loving care and support. I wanted to adopt them all, but Joe, being logical as always, convinced me that was impossible.
We also looked over agencies that specialised in people giving their newborns up for adoption. Some of the people who turn to these agencies were young teenagers, who had been convinced by their parents they couldn't support a child at their age. We thought a newborn child would be easier to raise. They had no memories and we could naturally raise them as if we had conceived the baby ourselves
However, we eventually decided on adopting a disadvantaged child. She was a girl. Her profile really stuck a chord within me. Not nearly a year ago, her family had died in a fire. She was heroically saved by her father, who had suffocated after inhaling the noxious fumes during the rescue.
She was young, almost two years old. The day Joe and I introduced her to our home, she looked almost lost. But since that time, the whole family's never been happier. The baby room now always has childish laughter emanating from it, and not always from our little baby.