He was only 16 when he brought her home—a girl already very much and undeniably pregnant, a year older than him.
Emily was studying at the same college, just a year ahead. For days, Oliver had noticed the unfamiliar girl huddled in a corner, crying silently. He couldn’t miss the telltale rounding of her stomach, the same clothes she’d worn for weeks, or the hollow, defeated look in her eyes.
As it turned out, nearly everyone knew her story… The grandson of some bigwig in their town had dated her, then vanished—allegedly on business—to another county. His parents refused to acknowledge her existence, bluntly telling her so. Her own family, terrified of “shame,” had kicked her out and retreated to their countryside cottage. Some pitied her; others snickered behind her back.
*”Serves her right. Should’ve thought with her head, not… well.”*
Oliver couldn’t just watch. He weighed his options and finally approached.
“It won’t be easy, but stop crying. Come home with me. We’ll get married. But fair warning—I don’t do sweet-talk or lies, not with you, not with the kid. I’ll just be there. And I promise we’ll make it work.”
Emily wiped her tears and studied him. Well… an ordinary bloke, no polish. Not the Prince Charming she’d imagined! But she had no real choice left, so she went with him.
His parents were stunned. His mum begged him to reconsider, but Oliver was firm.
“Mum, relax. It’ll be fine. I’ve got two grants—regular and hardship. I’ll pick up extra shifts. We’ll manage.”
“But what about your studies?”
“So? Dad’s worked at the factory his whole life, you’re at the shop. People get by without degrees. It’s not the end of the world!”
Emily settled into Oliver’s room. He gave her his bed and took the lumpy fold-out chair. For days, she was quiet—shadowing him to college, gripping his hand. Then, suddenly, she snapped.
“I’ve had enough! Why do your parents glare at me? They hate me! And why won’t you spend time with me? Always with your books or off somewhere!”
Oliver blinked.
“Honestly? Yeah, they don’t like you, but they let you stay. Your own family? Wanted nothing to do with you. And the baby’s dad’s parents? Where are they? I’m studying so I don’t fail first year. And the grant money’s not optional. ‘Off somewhere’? That’s called *working*. And no, I don’t fancy sobbing through telly dramas.”
Emily burst into tears.
“Why are you so mean?”
“Mean? I warned you—I don’t sugarcoat. Anyway, when are we filing at the registry office?”
“I can’t go like *this*! Get me a nice dress—high-waisted, so it hides—”
“Are you serious? We’re handing in a pregnancy cert. What dress? I need to save for a pram and a cot!”
His mum mainlined valerian drops but slowly adjusted. She even caught herself eyeing baby clothes. Maybe it wasn’t so terrible. Let them marry; she and Dad would help. Though the girl was grating—always whinging about Oliver, the flat, everything. Maybe after the birth, she’d soften.
But Emily didn’t soften. When Oliver dragged in a mangy stray cat from the car wash, grimy and exhausted, she turned scarlet.
“You idiot! Why’d you bring that flea-bag here? Chuck it out!”
“Nope. She’s expecting. Stays. Save your breath and warm up my dinner.”
“Oh, *really*?” she shrieked. “Choose—her or me!”
Oliver’s face twisted in bafflement.
“What? This is *my* flat. I don’t *do* ultimatums. My mum’s never pulled that. Maybe *you* should stop glaring at everyone?”
Emily wailed, raged, even grew jealous of the scrawny cat. And where did Oliver see a *belly*? But one appeared—she *was* pregnant.
He was tired, but whenever regret crept in, he shoved it aside. They’d cope. Emily would calm down. The kittens would help. Fluffy bundles *had* a way of soothing moods.
Except… it didn’t go that way.
The grandfather—town bigwig—returned from a long trip, heard the scandal, and hunted down his grandson. He yanked his ear and threatened to cut him off unless his great-grandchild was raised by *family*. And the lad *really* didn’t want to lose that safety net.
Emily left with him that same day, forgetting Oliver entirely—luckily, she had her ID (meant for a clinic visit). She shrugged off her things—new ones would come! And she’d *never* set foot in that shabby college again.
Oliver was crushed. Not even a goodbye. Not a call. He chucked her stuff out and sat in the dark, clutching his cat.
She understood. Pressed close, purred. Comforted.
When her labour came, Oliver delivered the kittens himself, shooing his jittery parents and murmuring reassurances. He watched, ready to call the vet.
Four kittens arrived. He changed the bedding, set out food and water, checked them twice, then collapsed into bed. Too busy to remember—that day was his birthday, too.
He’d just turned 17.
