Always with Chocolate

The fluorescent lights of Budgens flickered like dying lightning bugs, casting an unnatural bluish tint over the cramped aisles. Michael Harrington stood at the entrance, scanning the store layout while clutching a crumpled shopping list in his fist. His knuckles had gone white from the pressure. The small bell above the door jingled as it closed behind him, announcing his presence to the handful of shoppers scattered throughout the store.

"Not again," he muttered, feeling the familiar weight of dread settle in his stomach.

Two hours earlier, he'd stood in a similar position at Tesco's, staring at shelves laden with products he rarely had to think about. The packaging had blurred together in a sea of pinks, purples, and blues. He'd made his selection—confidently, foolishly—only to return home to Heidi's incredulous stare.

"Michael." The single word had carried volumes. She held up the package, letting it speak for itself.

He'd shuffled his feet. "It's not right?"

Her silence had been more eloquent than any lecture.

Now, he found himself in Budgens, determined not to make the same mistake twice. The memory of Heidi's red-rimmed eyes had propelled him back out into the misty London evening. He'd promised to get it right this time.

Michael navigated past an elderly man examining tins of beans as if they contained ancient wisdom. The feminine hygiene section would likely be in the back, he reasoned, tucked away like a shameful secret. As he walked, he pulled out his phone and opened the notes app where he'd typed Heidi's exact specifications. Blue packaging. Night-time use. With wings.

The past year had worn Heidi down. Five rounds of treatments, five crushing disappointments. Each month brought renewed hope, followed inevitably by the appearance of those blue-packaged necessities that signaled another failure. Michael had come to hate that particular shade of blue—the color of loss.

He spotted the hygiene section and quickened his pace. A twenty-something man stood nearby, pretending to be deeply interested in shampoo while periodically glancing at the feminine products. Their eyes met briefly—a flash of male solidarity in foreign territory—before both looked away.

"Excuse me," the young man muttered as he hastily grabbed a random package and retreated.

Michael didn't share his discomfort. After five children and seventeen years of marriage, shopping in this section had become as routine as picking up milk. The shame had calloused over, just like his hands had from years of fixing things around their overcrowded home. Years of Heidi sending him on these errands had immunized him against the embarrassment that still plagued other men.

He scanned the shelves. Various products with confusing terminology and absorbencies. The blue packaging caught his eye, but there were several variations. He squinted at the small print, trying to decipher the cryptic markings.

"Looking for something, dear?"

Michael turned to find an elderly woman with a sympathetic smile. She wore a cardigan the color of faded denim and spoke with the deliberate enunciation reserved for tourists and the very confused.

"FEMININE PRODUCTS," she said, pointing slowly to the shelf. "SAN-I-TARY NAP-KINS. For LADY."

Michael suppressed a sigh. "Thank you. I'm actually looking for a specific type."

Her eyes widened slightly, clearly not expecting such precision from a man. She recovered quickly. "OH! Those would be THERE." She pointed to a shelf just above Michael's eye level. "The PINK pack-age."

"Blue packaging," Michael corrected gently.

"No, no, dear. PINK. The NIGHT ones are PINK." She reached past him and picked up a package with flourish.

Michael's phone buzzed in his pocket. Heidi, no doubt, wondering about his progress. He glanced at the elderly woman's offering. Not what Heidi needed.

"Thank you, but I need a specific type." He offered what he hoped was a grateful smile.

The woman shrugged and shuffled away, muttering something about young men being particular these days.

Michael returned to his search, methodically examining each package. His phone buzzed again, insistent. He ignored it.

Growing up in a house with four sisters had prepared him somewhat for these errands, but nothing had prepared him for the complexity of Heidi's cycles since they'd begun trying for another child. Their youngest was already seven—Eliza, their unexpected blessing after they'd thought their family complete at four. Now, approaching forty, Heidi had become fixated on having "just one more" before time ran out.

There—on the bottom shelf, partially hidden behind a display of off-brand options—he spotted the distinctive blue packaging with the features Heidi had specified. He grabbed two packages, relieved.

With his primary mission accomplished, Michael headed toward the confectionery aisle. Heidi would need chocolate. She always did at this time of month, but especially now, with another disappointment to process.

The chocolate selection at Budgens was modest but adequate. Michael scanned the familiar brands—milk chocolate, dark chocolate, those with nuts or caramel or mint. His eyes landed on a distinctive wrapped chocolate bar from Tony's Chocolonely Salted Caramel—the blue pack, Heidi's favorite. The packaging promised ethical sourcing and fair trade. He grabbed it without hesitation.

The bright blue of Tony's packaging reminded him of the cover of Miles Davis' "Kind of Blue." That particular shade of cerulean always transported him back to long evenings listening to vinyl with Heidi when they'd first met, before children and mortgages and fertility calendars. The opening notes of "So What" would fill their tiny flat as they'd talk about the life they'd build together.

At the counter, a young clerk with indigo-dyed hair eyed his purchases.

"So what brings you out this late?" she asked, scanning the pads.

The phrase "So What" triggered the familiar melody in Michael's head—the opening track of Davis' masterpiece. He almost smiled at the coincidence.

"Forgot something important," he replied.

"Card or cash?"

"Card."

She shook her head. "Five pound minimum for cards. Cash only below that."

Michael patted his pockets, knowing before he finished the gesture that he hadn't brought enough cash. He'd rushed out after Heidi's tears began, thinking only of rectifying his mistake.

"How much am I short?" he asked.

The shopkeeper calculated quietly. "Need another pound to use card."

Michael scanned the display of impulse purchases near the register—chewing gum, lighters, more chocolate bars. His eyes landed on a small box of mint chocolates.

"I'll take those as well," he said, pointing to the mints.

"Special occasion?" the shopkeeper asked, ringing up the additional item.

Michael smiled wryly. "The opposite."

"Makes you think, doesn't it?" the shopkeeper said, misinterpreting Michael's expression.

"About what?"

"Some things cost more than they should. Others, less than they're worth."

Michael hadn't expected philosophy at Budgens, but he welcomed the distraction from his thoughts.

"I was let go from my job recently," he said, surprising himself. "Blackstone Financial. For taking too much time off to accompany my wife to... medical appointments."

The shopkeeper looked up sharply. "Blackstone? Saw something about them on the news."

"What about them?"

The man retrieved his phone, pulled up a news article, and turned the screen toward Michael. There it was—Blackstone Financial, collapsed under the weight of bad investments and regulatory penalties. The company where he'd spent fifteen years climbing the ladder, only to be discarded for prioritizing family over endless work hours, had imploded.

A strange feeling bubbled up inside him—something between vindication and vertigo.

"Seems they did you a favor," the shopkeeper observed, handing over the bag. "Jumping from a sinking ship before it went under."

Michael took the bag, mind racing. "I suppose they did."

Outside, the evening had deepened into that peculiar London twilight that turned the air itself a deep indigo. He stood for a moment, letting the cool air wash over him. His phone buzzed again. Six missed texts from Heidi.

Where are you? Did you find it? Michael? Are you ignoring me? I'm sorry. Please come home.

He texted back: On my way. With chocolate.

The walk home took him past the park where their children had learned to ride bikes, kick footballs, and climb trees. Now mostly empty in the evening chill, a few teenagers huddled on swings, their laughter carrying through the still air. Michael wondered if they understood how fleeting this time was, how quickly they'd be thrust into the adult world of mortgages and medical calendars and corporate betrayals.

The Tony's chocolate bar felt significant in his hand—a company built on the principle that chocolate shouldn't come at the cost of human suffering, unlike the institutions he'd wasted years serving. The blue packaging caught the streetlight, reminding him again of Miles Davis' album. "So What" played in his mind as he walked—that cool, indifferent phrase that somehow encompassed his feelings about his lost job, about the endless pursuit of career advancement at the expense of what truly mattered.

At the park's far edge stood the bench where he'd proposed to Heidi nineteen years ago. They'd been so young then, so certain of the life they'd build. Five children later—Thomas, Sophie, Oliver, Emma, and Eliza—they'd created the family they'd dreamed of. Yet somehow, it wasn't enough. Or rather, Heidi felt it wasn't finished.

Michael paused at the intersection, watching the traffic lights cycle through their colors. Red to amber to green, predictable and reliable. Unlike life, which had shown him repeatedly that the best-laid plans could dissolve in an instant.

Their home—a narrow Victorian terraced house they'd stretched themselves thin to afford—came into view. Lights blazed from almost every window, evidence of the chaos within. As he approached the front door, he heard the familiar soundtrack of their family life: someone practicing piano, badly; an argument about whose turn it was to choose the television program; the dog barking at nothing in particular.

He took a deep breath and turned his key in the lock.

The cacophony hit him first, followed by the warmth. After the chill of the evening, the house felt like slipping into a hot bath.

"Dad's back!" Thomas, their eldest at sixteen, called out from the living room without looking up from his laptop.

Heidi appeared in the kitchen doorway, dish towel in hand. Her eyes were still puffy.

"You found it?" she asked, voice neutral.

Michael reached into the bag and pulled out the Tony's chocolate bar first. "Always with chocolate," he said softly, handing it to her.

She took it, a small smile touching her lips before fading as she waited.

He hesitated, then pulled out the blue-packaged sanitary pads, holding them up. "I'm sorry about before."

Heidi stared at the items in his hands—the chocolate and the blue package—and suddenly burst into tears.

"Bloody period," she whispered, shoulders shaking.

Michael stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her. "I'm sorry," he said again, the words carrying more weight than just an apology for buying the wrong product earlier.

Their children's voices filtered in from the other room, life continuing its relentless forward motion around them.

The chocolate bar sat on the counter between them, a silent witness to their moment—a token of care when words failed, a gesture of sweetness in the face of bitter disappointment, a promise that kindness would always be their refuge when plans fell apart.

Later, after the children had been herded to their respective bedrooms and the house had settled into its nighttime creaks and sighs, Michael found Heidi sitting on the edge of their bed, staring at the unwrapped chocolate bar.

"I got my period," she said without looking up.

Michael sat beside her, the mattress dipping under their combined weight. "I know."

Heidi broke off a piece of chocolate. "Six months now."

"Heidi—"

"I saw the news about Blackstone."

Michael looked up, surprised. "How?"

"Thomas showed me." She paused. "He's worried about you."

"What did you tell him?"

"That sometimes things happen for a reason." She offered him a piece of chocolate, which he accepted. "He asked if we'd still be able to afford Christmas."

Michael stared at the chocolate melting between his fingers. "What did you say to that?"

"That some things are worth more than money."

They sat in silence, letting the weight of her words settle between them. Outside their window, the night sky had deepened to that particular midnight blue that made stars seem impossibly bright.

"The doctor mentioned alternatives," Heidi said eventually.

Michael watched her profile in the dim light. "And?"

"And it's expensive. And there are no guarantees." She broke off another piece of chocolate. "And we already have five amazing reasons to be grateful."

Michael took her free hand, chocolate smeared on his fingers. "Five reasons who currently think this house isn't chaotic enough."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Thomas wants to know if we'll move somewhere bigger when the baby comes."

"The baby that isn't even conceived yet."

"The hypothetical sixth." She squeezed his hand. "Or not."

Michael looked around their bedroom—at the laundry never quite conquered, at the toys that had migrated upstairs despite their best efforts at containment, at the calendar on the wall marked with activities and appointments for seven people.

"What if," he began carefully, "we looked at other paths forward?"

She was quiet for so long that Michael thought he'd said the wrong thing. But then she turned to face him fully.

"A different kind of blue," she murmured cryptically.

"A different note in the same song, maybe," he replied, thinking of Miles Davis—how the musician had taken traditional forms and transformed them into something entirely new.

They sat in companionable silence, sharing the chocolate square by square. Outside, the night had deepened to that particular shade of darkness that precedes dawn—not quite black, but a deep, infinite blue.

"I'm sorry about earlier," Heidi said eventually.

"It wasn't about the pads."

"No," she agreed. "It wasn't."

Michael wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "One day at a time?"

Heidi nodded against his shoulder, and he felt the tension begin to ease from her body.

"Always with chocolate," she murmured sleepily. "Your solution to everything."

"Not everything," Michael admitted. "But it helps."

"It does," she whispered. "You always know."

As Heidi drifted off to sleep, Michael remained sitting on the edge of the bed, listening to the quiet breathing of his wife and the distant sounds of their home settling. Five children asleep under one roof. A family built not according to plan, but according to heart. Complete, in its own way—yet open to whatever might come next.

Outside their window, the first hint of dawn began to lighten the sky from midnight blue to cerulean. A new day. New possibilities.

Michael carefully adjusted the blanket over Heidi and slipped into bed beside her. Whatever came next—job interviews or adoption consultations or perhaps even another round of fertility treatments—they would face it together, navigating the blues of disappointment with steady companionship and, always, with chocolate.

They had weathered darker blues before and emerged into brighter skies. They would do so again.