It all felt rather awkward.
“You’re his *what*?”
“His wife. In the most literal, legal sense—I could show you the stamp in my passport. Didn’t bring the marriage certificate, though, sorry,” the woman replied, resting a protective hand on her swollen belly.
***
“Sweetheart, I’ll be away on contract next week, and the signal’s spotty up there. Don’t lose touch, all right?” said James Thompson.
“Don’t worry about the cat. I’ll drop by, feed him, clean the tray,” muttered Emily, barely glancing up from her phone.
“About the cat…” James hesitated. “Honestly, love, don’t trouble yourself trekking all the way here after work just for him. Mrs. Wilkins from upstairs—you know, the one on the landing—she’s agreed to pop in now and then to check on Whiskers.”
Emily smirked. “Bit odd, Dad. Your neighbour’s practically a saint—feeding your cat, picking up groceries, even fetching prescriptions after work. Lucky you.”
“Yes… very lucky.”
James suddenly felt a pang of guilt for lying yet again. His brow furrowed, and he forced himself to think of something else to mask his unease. *She suspects nothing—just teasing me,* he told himself.
James and Emily’s mother had divorced seven years ago—amicably, without drama. They’d simply agreed the love was gone. After explaining things to Emily, they’d filed the papers with clear consciences. She’d taken it well, on one condition: they’d still celebrate holidays together as a family. Everyone had agreed.
***
“So, I’m your *neighbour* now?” Sarah said, arching an eyebrow.
“Couldn’t think of anything else…” James mumbled, avoiding her gaze.
“Right. Much easier than calling me your *wife*.”
“Sarah, don’t be like that.”
“I’m a grown woman, James. But how long are we going to keep up this charade?”
“I don’t *know*,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “What if she doesn’t take it well? When she was little, she’d panic at the thought of either of us leaving—always asking if we’d abandon her. It feels like a betrayal.”
“I’m not interfering in your relationship with Emily, but in two months, you’ll have *two* daughters. This isn’t sustainable. I’m not forcing you to choose—God forbid—but how exactly do you plan to hide a newborn?”
“We’ll figure it out,” James said hollowly, though he had no idea how.
He’d met Sarah not long after the divorce. The moment they’d spoken, he’d known—she was the one. But admitting he’d moved on? Impossible. He’d feared Emily would pull away, or his ex-wife would make visitation impossible.
First, he’d agonised over Sarah being nearly a decade younger. Then, over marrying her in secret. And now? Now Sarah was pregnant, and the truth would soon burst like an overripe blister. *I’ll tell them when the time’s right,* he lied to himself.
***
That morning, after James returned from his contract work, Emily decided to surprise him with a visit. But no one answered the door. Her calls went straight to voicetime. Frowning, she stepped back onto the pavement. No mistake—he’d texted from the airport, then again after landing: *Touched down, heading home. Call you tonight.*
Yet he wasn’t home. *He’s an adult—probably running errands,* she told herself.
“James was taken to hospital,” an unfamiliar voice cut through her thoughts.
“What? When? Where?” Emily spun around, breath catching.
An elderly woman leaned out of a ground-floor window. She’d seen James return with his luggage—likely from his trip—only for an ambulance to arrive half an hour later.
“From what I overheard, it’s cardiac,” the neighbour said. “He walked out on his own, thank goodness. No stretcher, so not critical.” She squinted. “Recognised you straight away—you’re his girl. Always waiting for your taxi out here.”
“How long ago?”
“An hour, maybe.”
Emily barely heard the rest. Trembling, she dialled emergency services, begging for details. Minutes later, she had the hospital name. Hailing a cab, she fought back panic, her father’s phone still unreachable.
***
“My father—they said he was admitted here!” Emily choked out at reception.
The clerk, unfazed, asked, “When was he brought in?”
“I don’t *know*—maybe an hour ago? Please, just—”
“Name?”
“Thompson. James Thompson, born March 12, 1973…”
“Wait here.” The clerk disappeared, returning shortly. “Cardiology ward. No visitors—quarantine protocols. If you’ve brought anything, staff will collect it. Visiting hours are posted at the main entrance.”
Emily sprinted outside, relief flickering. *If he’s stable enough to walk, it can’t be too bad.*
But at the ward, a nurse scowled. “You’re *not* visiting hours.”
“He’s just been admitted! I don’t even know if he has *clothes*!” Emily’s voice cracked.
A hand touched her shoulder. She whirled—expecting security—but found a heavily pregnant woman, barely older than herself.
“Emily, hello,” the stranger said gently.
“Do I know you?”
“Not really. I know *you*—but to you, I’m just ‘the neighbour who feeds the cat and picks up prescriptions.’” She attempted a smile.
Emily stared. “What?”
“I’m his wife.”
“*What?*”
“Legally. Passport stamp and all.” Sarah patted her belly. “Let’s talk outside. He’s stable—microinfarction, they think. I’ve brought his things.”
As they stepped into the crisp air, Emily’s mind reeled. “How long?”
Sarah sighed. “He planned to tell you ‘when the time was right.’ But life had other ideas.”
“And the baby?”
“He was terrified you’d hate him.”
Emily barked a laugh. “*What?* I’ve been worried he was *lonely!*”
Sarah studied her. “So… you’re not upset?”
“God, no! This is *brilliant!*” Emily shook her head. “No wonder his heart’s acting up—all this sneaking about!”
Sarah exhaled, relief softening her features. “Come home with me? We’ll figure out how to punish him—within medical limits.”
Emily hesitated. “Feels a bit… odd.”
“Odd’ll be bringing a baby home to family who’ve never met her.” Sarah linked arms with her. “Trust me—we’re going to get along just fine.”
***
Sometimes, the truths we fear sharing are the very ones that set us free.
