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“We walked out of the consulting room, and I was the one comforting her, even though I was the one who’d been told they were broken, that they couldn’t fulfil their role as a human being.”

The crack in my heart widens. I want to touch him, to place my hand on his, to tell him that broken things can be fixed, but I’m enough of an adult to know that this sometimes isn’t the case.

“I tried to talk to her on the way home, but she just clammed up. She wouldn’t speak or even look at me, so when we got home and she locked herself in the bathroom, I took Paul out for a walk, hoping to clear my head and give Pippa time to calm down and hopefully be in a place where she could talk to me.”

He shakes his head.

“But when I got back, she was loading bags into her car. I remember just standing there in utter disbelief, wondering what on earth she was doing, and when I asked her, she said she was going to stay with a friend because she needed to think. I asked her if maybe we needed to think about things together, but she said no. She needed to be alone to think.”

The crack in my heart hardens as I picture the scene: Owen broken, his wife walking out on him.

“I watched her drive off, wondering how I’d gone from waking up this morning happily married to being told I was infertile and then my wife packing her bags and leaving. How does life change like that so quickly, so brutally?” he asks, but I know this is a question I’m not supposed to answer.

“Four weeks was apparently the time she needed to think, and when she came back, it was to pack up the remainder of her things and tell me that our marriage was over. She told me she couldn’t be with someone with whom she couldn’t have a family.” His voice is so low, so sad, like a violin playing the deepest, longest note.

“I asked her if she’d even loved me at all, and she said she had, but I couldn’t give her what she wanted, and she knew if she stayed with me, knowing I couldn’t give her a family, she’d end up hating me, so best to leave now while we both still had a chance at finding happiness. And I laughed in her face because what chance did I have? She could go off and marry someone else and get her precious baby, but what about me? I’d never have the family, the children, the memories. I’d never have that.”

Tears sting my eyes, but I push them away. I feel like Owen needs strength right now, not some blubbering idiot, so I swallow my emotions.

“So I’ve spent the last three years in a very dark place, not only losing my wife and going through a divorce, but knowing I can’t have children. There’s a lot of support for women who can’t have children, but I feel like men are forgotten. We aren’t the carriers, so it mustn’t affect us as much, but people are wrong. It messes with your head and sends you into a lonely spiral, one that’s hard to get out of.”

If it’s possible, my heart is now bleeding, sorrow running from the crack at the loss of something most people take for granted. I’ve never even thought about kids, let alone wanting them, but what must it be like to want them and know you can’t have them? What then?

“Smithy and Romana were great support, and Smithy was the one who urged me to go and date again and not wallow. And I tried, but I was always upfront about things, not wanting to string anyone along or fall in love with someone for them just to leave me when they found out I couldn’t give them a child. And, unfortunately, due to my age, most of the women I dated were at the time of life when they were thinking about kids and settling down. And I saw it in their faces, when I told them I was infertile. They’d smile and pat my hand and tell me it didn’t matter, and we’d carry on with the date, but then they’d leave, and I’d never hear from them again.”

Owen looks at me, his fingers intertwined in his lap. I can’t tell if his eyes are watering or if my own vision is blurred.

“So, that’s why I’ve given up on love and having a family. Because for me, it doesn’t exist.”

The lump in my throat is now dry and impossible to swallow, and I want to grab his hand, to throw my arms around him, and tell him everything will be okay. But I’d be lying, because what he’s saying is so important that it can’t be batted away with words and a big squeeze.

But I do have to say something. I can’t leave him looking so sad and lost. I just hope to God my brain doesn’t choose now to say something ridiculous and silly. I settle on: “I just wish, for your sake, Pippa had loved you enough.”

He quirks his eyebrow, so I continue. “If you love someone enough, then you work things out, change the plan, rewrite the story. You don’t just rip the pages out and start again. That’s what love is all about, or so I imagine.”

He blinks, then looks back at the sea. “It’s easy for you to say.”

“How do you mean?”

“Because it isn’t you. I don’t blame Pippa for leaving me. I don’t hate her for it, because she was right. She would’ve ended up hating me. Can you imagine marrying the man you love only to find out he can’t have kids, that you’ll never be able to get pregnant with him, have a family with him, and watch your kids grow up together? What would you have done?” He turns to me.

I chew my lip and think carefully, but my brain takes over, and I begin to say exactly what’s going through my head.

“Well, for starters, I’m not sure I want kids. I’ve never got far enough down the line for it to even be on the agenda, but I’d like to think if I loved someone enough, then the option to leave them wouldn’t even enter my head. I’d be so grateful to have found someone to love and who loves me back that anything else would be a bonus,” I tell him.

I think about my parents. They didn’t want a child, and I’m still not sure whether I was an accident or they just reached a point in their lives where they thought it was now or never, so they had me, only to realise I didn’t really fit into their plan.

Again, I’m not complaining.

They love me, and always showed me love, but usually through something they bought me, not spending time with me, playing with me, talking to me, or watching films or TV with me. They were always too busy, too wrapped up in their work. So I’ve never taken kids for granted, never seen them as something you have to do in life.

“But you’re right,” I add. “I can’t answer your question because it isn’t me. I’m not Pippa. I’m just sorry you’ve had to go through this alone and that you live with this grey cloud… and now Paul.” I look at him, and my chest heaves. “But you aren’t alone, because I’ve managed to squirrel my way into your life, and no matter how annoying and irritating I am, there’s no getting rid of me now.”

“And why is that?”

“Because, Owen Shea, I’ve spent the last few weeks getting to know you, and you are now one of my very favourite people on this earth.”

He smiles, a little glimmer appearing in the corners of his eyes that I hope is thanks to me and not the loss he feels, but then he says, “I’m honoured.” And there’s no humour, no sarcasm, just the truth which settles comfortably in my heart.