Just over a year ago, my younger sister Rose got married and is now on the verge of giving birth to her first child.

Her husband’s family is struggling financially, and they are still making payments on their wedding debt. My immediate instinct was to assist Rose when I learned that she was due any day.

However, I work as a Manchester office clerk and barely make ends meet. My wife’s £750 savings seemed to be the only apparent source. She has been holding that money as her “maternity fund” because it was given to her by her late mother and was registered in her name.

Every time I’d mentioned it before, she’d dismiss:

“That money is for when we have our own baby. Don’t use it!”

But this time, I told myself, it’s different. This is my own sister — my bl00d.

I spoke softly at first, then firmly, and eventually, with a tinge of annoyance, to my wife, Lisa:

Can’t you stop being so self-centered? She’s my sister! She doesn’t even have a decent pram, and she’s going to give birth. You feel terrible for her, don’t you?

Lisa gave me a chilly look.

“You speak as though I don’t exist. But consider this: have you ever asked me what I need since we got married?

I bounced back:

“Is this really the time to share about small things? Giving £750 doesn’t mean we give up everything. Your sister-in-law is also my sister!”

She went quiet, stood up, and walked into our bedroom. I sat up in the lounge, whispering under my breath, thinking I was finally seeing her “true colours.”

A few minutes later, Lisa surfaced — saying nothing, just holding a small box. She stopped in front of me and dropped it upon the floor.

“You want £750, right? Here — take it yourself.”

I froze, stunned. But when I condescended, it wasn’t money inside.

It was medical records.

I stooped, picked them up, and began reading. My hands quivered.
— Fertility test results.
— Hormone test results.
— Abnormal uterine scan reports.

She had discreetly visited private clinics and the general practitioner on her own, going through tests and treatments without alerting me, as evidenced by the dates scrawled on the pages.

The final page is a cost estimate for in vitro fertilization, or IVF.

Nearly £1,200 in total.

Her eyes were red as she stood there, her voice shaking yet steady:

“That money… is my only hope to become a mum. I haven’t spent a single pound on myself. I’ve been preparing to start IVF next month. And you call me selfish?”

I couldn’t answer. My throat tightened.

But she wasn’t done. Lisa walked to the wardrobe and departed another set of documents:
— A resignation letter from her previous job.
— A letter from her parents, apologising that they couldn’t help financially.
— And a bank book showing only £800 left.

“I have no one else but you. I’ve put all my hopes into this. But if I have to give everything away to your family… then just consider me unworthy to be your wife.”

She turned, took back into the bedroom, and banged the door.

The house quitted chattering.

I gazed at the medical records sprinkled on the carpet, hearing only the pounding of my own heart.

I — a husband — had called her selfish without ever asking about the silent battles she’d been battling. Without realising her deepest dream wasn’t gold or comfort… it was simply to be a mother.

For the first time in my life, I realized myself on my knees. Not to beg for money — but to beg for her forgiveness.