“Do you think it will ever bear fruit?” asked my elderly neighbour, leaning on the fence dividing our yards.

He indicated the apple tree but my mind was elsewhere.

I took a deep breath and smiled at Bill, who’d been so kind since we moved to the house next door. His wife had passed away and their only son lived far away in England. My family was on the other side of the country and I’d always hoped he’d become a special uncle, if only…

“I don’t know what else to try,” I said. “I’ve fertilised with commercial mix, tried various manures and loads of compost. There are flowers close by to bring the bees and I’ve given it plenty of water.”

“Perhaps you’ve tried too hard. Relax. Keep the faith and don’t give up hope.”

I’d miscarried the previous week but Jason and I kept that to ourselves, even though Bill was one of very few people who didn’t continually ask about when we planned to start a family. After countless miscarriages and disappointments, I’d isolated a little, afraid of my reactions to kindly meant questions.

We planted the tree when we moved in, and it grew tall, seemingly with hope and promise but every year the blossoms faded and dropped, apples failing to form from the tiny buds. 

Likewise, I’d done everything I could to increase our chances of having a family. Special foods, vitamins and exercise, but like the buds, our babies failed to grow. Numerous natural pregnancies and three rounds of IVF. The latest one lasted longer than previous attempts, offering hope, but then another crash of disappointment.

I pondered Bill’s words that night. Perhaps I should take a step back. I’d given the tree and our baby dreams my all and although not ready to give up all together, perhaps I needed to give my shattered heart time to heal.

Twelve months later, Bill was first to the hospital, bearing a gift in a brown paper bag. Apples. Freshly picked from our tree.

“Thanks Uncle Bill. Come and meet little William.”