In the maternity ward, she was told her baby hadnt made it. Years later, she discovered her son was aliveraised by his biological fathers family.
Oliver had fancied Emily since secondary school, and theyd always talked about tying the knot someday. His mother, Margaret Hartley, who ran the maternity ward at St. Marys Hospital, wasnt keen on her sons choice. Shed always preferred a nurse named Charlottea girl from a long line of doctors, adored by staff and patients alike.
After A-levels, Oliver started medical school, while Emily went off to study modern languages, aiming to be a translator like her mum and gran. Their mates decided to celebrate with a weekend at Olivers familys cottage in the Cotswolds.
They ended up staying nearly a month, reluctant to leave. But term was starting soon, and reality beckoned.
Come autumn, Emily broke the news. “Ollie, Im pregnant. What dyou reckon?”
“What do I reckon?” He grinned. “Ill carry you to the registry office myself.”
“Im not exactly light these days.”
“Scare a bloke who played rugby? Youre featherweight,” he teased.
“But what about uni?”
“Right,” Oliver said, sobering. “Youll have to take a gap year after the babys born.”
“Ill switch to distance learningMum did it when she had me at nineteen. But listen, Ollie, after were married, youre moving in with us. Your mums never warmed to me. Best keep our peace from a distance.”
“For you, Em? Anything,” he agreed.
They filed their notice at the registry office and headed their separate ways. Back at Emilys flat, her dads old friend had dropped by with his wife and their son, Williamsixteen but could pass for twenty.
Meanwhile, Oliver broke the news to his parents. Margaret was less than thrilled. That evening, she marched over to Emilys, ready for a row. She jabbed the doorbell repeatedly, but no one answeredthey were too busy setting the table, the music drowning out the chime. William, mid-shower, towel wrapped round his waist, finally answered.
Margaret, momentarily thrown, recovered quickly. Phone in hand, she hit record, capturing William in all his damp, bewildered glory.
“Here for Mrs. Bennett?” he asked, oblivious.
“Not anymore,” Margaret snapped, scurrying off.
Back home, she showed Oliver the footage. “Recognise the hallway? Who knows whose baby shes really carrying?”
“Right. You were spot-on. Shes not for me.”
Oliver fired off a furious text, then switched his phone off. Emily, baffled, tried calling but got nowhere. Late as it was, she went round.
Margaret, watching from the window, beat her to the door. Blocking the entrance, she sneered, “What dyou want? Olivers asleep. Run alongplenty of other lads to play about with.” The door slammed shut.
Emily, tears streaming, slumped on the steps before trudging home. Her mum, washing up, took one look at her and pulled her close.
“Love, whats wrong? You should be over the moonweddings just weeks away!”
“Mum, its off. His mothers poisoned him against me.” She showed her the text accusing her of cheating.
“If hes that easily swayed, love, youre better off without him. Well manage just fine.”
The fallout left Emily shattered. The pregnancy was rough, and when she went into labour, her parents were at work. Under anaesthesia, she delivered a sononly to wake and be told he hadnt survived.
After the paperwork, her parents buried the baby. Devastated, Emily stayed in hospital, missing the funeral.
The Harts sold up and moved away soon after.
“Honestly, love, its a blessing. Running into Oliver was torturewalking past like you didnt exist.”
“Hope I forget him soon,” Emily muttered.
Eight years passed.
Emily worked as a translator when Oliver walked into her office.
“Whyre you back in my life? Ive moved on.”
“Im sorry, but its urgent. Our sons illhe needs a donor.”
“Youve lost the plot. Try your mothershes the expert.”
“Weve waited ages. No match. Im selling my flat to cover costs. Youre his mumyouve the best shot at helping him.”
“Jokes on you. Our son died. My parents buried him.”
“Hes alive. Hes eight.”
“How?”
“Remember the day we filed for marriage?”
“Hard to forget your charming text.”
Oliver repeated his mothers tale about the “other man” at Emilys flat.
Emily rolled her eyes. “That was William, Dads mates son. Youve been had.”
Oliver paled. Hed never marriedstill loved her. Neither had she, too scared of losing another child.
“Ollie, focus. What did your mother do?”
“When you were in labour, she was on shift. She had you testedconfirmed I was the father. Didnt want you having him. I was too bitter to see the truth. Now our boy, Henry, is sick.”
“Take me to him.”
At the hospital, Emilys hands shook as she saw her son.
“Henry, we found your mum,” Oliver said softly.
“Knew youd look just like this,” Henry whispered.
Emily hugged him tight. “Sweetheart, Im here. Well fix this.”
Turned out, she was a match. Oliver sold his flat, covered the bills, and they moved in with Emilys parents.
“Em, we ought to marry. And have another kid. Doctor says siblings make better donors.”
“Read up on that. For Henryand for usIm in.”
They tied the knot. Now, alongside Henry, theyre raising little Sophie and Jamesproof that second chances do come, even after the messiest of starts.
