It’s Better Not to Love, So It Doesn’t Hurt
Penelope had a child late, almost at forty. Her own mother had done the same. If it weren’t for Margaret, her mother, who desperately begged for grandchildren, Penelope might never have had one at all.
A successful solicitor, Penelope was consumed by work. She had never married, never liked children, never wanted them. It wasn’t that she disliked them—she simply couldn’t fathom what to do with them. Marriage, too, seemed unthinkable. She’d grown so accustomed to living for herself that the idea of domestic life felt foreign.
«Penelope, perhaps you should see a therapist,» suggested a colleague, as if sensing some disorder in her. «Isn’t life dull without family or children? So lonely…»
«On the contrary,» Penelope replied. «I feel perfectly comfortable alone.»
«But what about when you’re old? Who will bring you a glass of water?»
Penelope had a firm answer for that:
«And what if I don’t want a drink?»
Men, too, were a complication. Occasionally, she met decent ones—intelligent, well-mannered, independent. But they all expected homemade shepherd’s pie, roast dinners, proper puddings. She had no time for that.
«Daughter, when will you give me a grandchild?» Margaret pressed, her voice sharp with urgency. «I’m getting old, soon I’ll be too frail to help. Must I really die without ever seeing one?»
«Mum, you had me late too. Why was that?» Penelope countered.
Margaret only shrugged vaguely.
«In my day, it was shameful to live childless, but just as shameful to have one without a husband.»
Margaret had spent her life as head librarian at the city’s central library, and no man had ever been seen at her side. Yet she’d had Penelope.
Still, one day, Penelope grew uneasy. The years slipped by, and she wondered if she was missing out on some kind of happiness. She began noticing families—like the one at the bus stop outside her office: a couple with two young children.
«If they’re taking the bus, they must not have a car,» she thought immediately. «The man’s wearing cheap joggers. No money at all.»
She considered her own healthy bank balance, imagined an upcoming holiday under Mediterranean palms. She was thirty-eight now. Penelope approached motherhood like a legal case—methodically, rationally. She needed to choose the right father. As a solicitor, she understood the risks. If anything happened, the child must have a father. God forbid the boy be left alone.
She selected carefully, settling on James, a barrister three years her junior. She became pregnant deliberately, without pretense of love, only responsibility. She told him plainly one evening over tea at a café.
«I need to speak with you seriously,» she said, sliding documents across the table. «But not here. Let’s meet later.»
James raised an eyebrow but agreed.
«What’s this about?»
«Let’s discuss it then.»
She saw in him the same pragmatism she valued in herself. He was unmarried, uninterested in children, but he couldn’t refuse a business proposition.
«I propose,» she said, switching to first names, «that we have a child. I’ve thought long about this. No one would make a better father.»
James considered it. «Very well. I agree.»
They met formally—once, twice, three times in a hotel. Finally, Penelope conceived. There was no love between them, only professionalism. Still, they married at the registry office. Penelope had considered contingencies. If something happened to her, the child would have a father. Everything was planned, calculated.
At the sight of two pink lines, Penelope realized she’d made a terrible mistake. She didn’t want this child. The pregnancy passed without incident—some nausea, swollen ankles, nothing severe. When she complained, the private doctor only shrugged.
«What do you expect, my dear? Your age.»
She resented the baby’s movements, refused to know its sex.
«Don’t tell me,» she warned the doctor, who assumed she wanted a surprise. Penelope simply wanted no part of it.
As the birth neared, dark thoughts crept in.
«My mother’s old. What if she dies just as the baby arrives? No—better if James’s mother takes the child.»
As expected, Margaret showed no interest in the grandchild. When Penelope presented the positive test, her mother only arched a brow, as if surprised her daughter had bothered. Strangely, Margaret never asked about the father, never inquired after Penelope’s health or plans. Penelope wondered if she was ill.
James registered the baby—Oliver—while Penelope recovered in hospital. He chose the name without consulting her. She didn’t object.
James collected them from the private clinic, took them to his home. His mother, a stern, retired colonel, had offered to care for the child. Margaret, frail and elderly, had no energy for newborns.
«Yes, daughter,» Margaret murmured. «Let his father’s family raise him. I can’t promise anything. My time is nearly done.»
Penelope refused maternity leave—unthinkable in her profession. They hired a nanny, the kindest woman, Mrs. Hodgkins, chosen precisely for her gentleness. She coddled Oliver, sang lullabies, doted on him.
From a solicitor’s perspective, she was perfect.
Penelope and James paid well, and Mrs. Hodgkins was content.
«My sweet boy,» she’d whisper, bundling Oliver for walks. «Fresh air will help you sleep, then you’ll eat well. Oh, my joy, my darling.»
Oliver heard no such words from his parents. Penelope lived mostly with Margaret, James with his mother. Oliver stayed with his grandmother.
Years passed. Penelope rarely saw her son, James scarcely more. Yet they attended events together, presenting a respectable front. Oliver grew cheerful, unlike either parent.
«All Mrs. Hodgkins’s doing,» Penelope thought with relief. «Money can compensate for lack of instinct, attention, time.»
Oliver thrived in school.
«Our boy’s top of his class,» James mentioned at work. «Wonder who he takes after? Our project succeeded.»
Penelope nodded. «Book a café for his birthday. Let him invite friends. He’s nearly grown.»
Unlike his parents, Oliver had no interest in law. He excelled in computing, natural as a fish in water.
«At least he didn’t turn out like us,» Penelope said. «Logic serves him well. Imagine if he’d been artistic—much harder.»
James agreed. «Enough lawyers. A programmer’s better.»
Margaret passed quietly just before Oliver’s eighteenth birthday, leaving him a generous sum.
At the funeral, Penelope didn’t cry. She stood stiffly, James and Oliver beside her.
That year, at his birthday, Oliver hugged them suddenly.
«Do you love me at all?»
«Of course we do,» James fumbled. Penelope said nothing.
Oliver knew his parents well. He suspected they’d rehearsed the answer, just as they planned everything. He vowed never to live that way.
«I’ll marry for love,» he decided, though no one had told him otherwise. «My family will come first. I’ll cherish them.»
He looked at his parents, hugged them, smiled. Once a year, he could pretend. They never showed affection themselves. To them, parenthood was a task, neatly completed.
Perhaps it was self-defense—better not to love, so it doesn’t hurt. Penelope and James had found each other.