**A Different Thompson…**
James felt Emily’s fingers brush against his hand.
“What?” He blinked. “Is it time?”
She gave a cryptic smile, her gaze drifting to the bed beside him. James turned his head—there lay a bundle wrapped in a blanket. He reached out, but the fabric sank under his touch. Empty.
“James!” Emily’s voice, strained with worry, called from somewhere distant.
His eyes snapped open. Her anxious face hovered above him, tense, as if listening for something. He shook his head, shaking off the remnants of sleep.
“What? Is it happening? We’ve still got two weeks—”
“I don’t know,” Emily murmured. “My stomach hurts.”
“Right.” James propped himself up on his elbows. “We should call an ambulance.” His eyes flicked to the bed beside him—no bundle. He exhaled in relief, pushing the dream from his mind.
“Let’s wait. I’m not sure it’s contractions. Just cramping. They said to call when they’re ten minutes apart.” Emily’s hopeful eyes met his.
“By the time the ambulance gets here, you’ll have had the baby. Where’s my phone?” He groped for his jeans on the chair. The phone slipped from the pocket, landing with a muffled thud on the plush carpet.
James finally woke fully, pulling on his jeans and scooping up the phone. Behind him, Emily groaned, hands pressed to her belly.
“Was that a contraction?” He scrambled to her side, kneading her lower back with his fists, just as they’d learned in antenatal class.
“Breathe deep,” he instructed, inhaling sharply through his nose before exhaling through his mouth. Emily copied him.
“It’s gone,” she said, managing a weak smile.
“I’m calling the ambulance.” He jumped up. “No. Get dressed—I’ll drive you to the hospital. Faster that way.”
The hospital bag, packed weeks ago, sat in the corner of the bedroom.
“Documents are in the nightstand,” Emily said, pulling a loose dress over her head.
James grabbed them, spotting her phone charger at the bottom of the drawer. He stuffed it into the bag.
“Your passport?”
“Hall cupboard,” came her muffled reply.
He stormed into the next room, cursing under his breath about disorganisation. “Your phone—where is it?”
“Here, on the nightstand,” Emily replied calmly.
“Emily, I *told* you to keep everything together. You’re like a child,” he grumbled, storming back. “Hairbrush? Toothbrush?”
She gave a guilty smile, but it twisted into a grimace as another wave of pain hit.
“Hold on.” He dropped the bag and resumed the massage. Irritation flared—he glanced at the clock. Half past five in the morning.
Emily relaxed briefly before another contraction seized her. James yanked on a T-shirt, hoisted the bag.
“Come on. Maybe we can get downstairs before the next one.”
Emily shuffled into the hallway, hands cradling her swollen belly. He helped her into wide boots—her usual fashionable shoes long abandoned thanks to swollen feet. After bundling her into a coat, he jammed his own feet into shoes—no time for socks.
“Ready?” He helped her up from the low bench, and they stepped out.
On the way to the lift, Emily stopped, groaning, bracing herself against the wall. James sympathised but fought impatience. At this rate, they’d *never* get there.
“Nearly there. The car’ll be easier,” he urged, guiding her forward.
London was just waking up. Snow from the night before had slowed traffic to a crawl.
*Why don’t people plan babies for summer? No snow, no ice—easy.*
A moan from Emily cut off his thoughts. The roads were empty—he pressed the accelerator.
“Em, hold on. Breathe.”
Every time she tensed in pain, his own stomach muscles clenched. But it wasn’t the same. He couldn’t share the pain, couldn’t lessen it for her.
Finally—the hospital. He helped her out, half-carrying her up the ramp to the emergency doors. The reception area was deserted.
“Hello? We’re having a baby!” His voice echoed.
A midwife appeared, calm and efficient.
“How far apart are the contractions?”
“Getting closer,” James answered for Emily.
“Get her changed. Take her coat and shoes. Documents, please.”
James moved like molasses, slow in his own head. Emily bit her lip, breathing hard.
“Go home. Ring this number for updates.” The midwife pointed to a sheet on the wall.
James looked away—Emily stood by the opposite door, terrified. His stomach lurched. *What if I never see her again?* He dashed toward her, but the midwife blocked him.
“No further.”
He loved her so much in that moment. Words failed him.
“I love you!” he blurted, forcing a smile.
Emily tried to return it, but pain twisted her face.
*God…* He knew no prayers, not now.
After loading her things into the car, he drove home—only to realise he was due at work. Work? He rang his boss, explaining.
“Understood. Twice been through it myself. Call later with news.”
James paced the flat, picking up objects, setting them down. In the bedroom, he buried his face in Emily’s pillow, breathing in her scent.
“It’ll be fine,” he muttered.
*Should I call yet?*
He remembered their first meeting—a friend’s birthday. Not love at first sight. She’d seemed too aloof. But he’d asked her to dance anyway—no other women were free.
Later, his friend admitted it had been a setup.
James had walked her home. Conversation stilted, but the calm between them felt *right*. No games, no pretense. She was thirty-three, he was forty-one—both burned by past failures.
When she told him she was pregnant, fear came first. Then joy.
Now, the flat suffocated him. He’d go back, stand outside the hospital. She’d *feel* him there.
Parked outside, he watched as a group emerged—a beaming father cradling a blue-ribboned bundle, a tired but smiling woman trailing behind.
Would *he* walk out like that soon?
Another man stumbled out, jacket open, nerves written all over him. James approached.
“Wife in labour?”
“Second day. Is it always this long?”
“Dunno. Mine’s only been three hours. Any way to check on her?”
The man jerked his thumb toward the door.
Inside the hospital, cheerful baby posters lined the walls.
“Thompson, Emily—any update?” he asked the receptionist.
A nurse approached, whispering. The woman’s eyes flicked to James.
“You’re Mr Thompson?”
Dread gripped him.
“Yes.”
“Wait here. Put on these shoe covers.”
The films he’d seen flashed through his mind. *No. Not like this.* The posters blurred.
The nurse led him down a corridor. His legs were lead.
*God, not this. Please.*
“Go in.”
A man James’s age stood, offering water.
“Are you Emily Thompson’s husband?”
A second man burst in—the same nervous one from outside.
“I’m Mr Thompson!”
The doctor looked between them.
“So… you’re *both* married to Emily Thompson?”
Then it hit him. His wife was *Emily Rose* Thompson.
“Sorry—repeat the name?”
The consultant did.
“Not my wife,” James exhaled. “Mine’s Emily Rose. Thirty-two. Is *she* alright?”
“Hold on.” The man made a call.
James couldn’t wait. “What about Em?”
“Ms Thompson’s in delivery. Go home. All’s well.”
James stumbled out. The posters mocked him.
The other Mr Thompson collapsed onto a chair, rocking, face in hands.
“What happened?” James asked.
The man didn’t respond.
“The baby?”
“They *switched them!*” The man lurched up. “Your wife’s in there too—another Thompson! *They made a mistake!*”
James grabbed his arm. “*Mine’s* Emily Rose. Thirty-two. Yours must be younger. The baby?”
The man froze. “What’s a baby without her? *She’s gone.*”
“Thompson?” the receptionist called.
They both lunged.
“Emily Rose Thompson delivered. Boy. Seven pounds. Both healthy.”
James staggered back. “*I have a son.*”
The other man’s hollow voice cut in. “Lucky.”
James hesitated. “Need a lift?”
The whole ride, the man sobbed. “Why *her*? It was all fine…”
The car was thick with grief. James regretted offering.
At the man’s house, he tried, “You’ve got a daughter. Hold on for her.”
The man stumbled inside withoutYears later, while pushing his son on the swings at the park, James caught sight of the other Mr. Thompson—laughing as his little girl chased after a golden retriever, a new woman by his side, and he knew life had carried them both forward.
