“Not Giving Her Up. Not to Anyone.”
“Excuse me?” A girl peeked through the slightly ajar office door.
“Appointments are over for today. We only see patients by prior booking,” replied Dr. Emily Parker without looking up. Something about the girl’s face tugged at her memory. She never forgot a face—yet she was certain this girl had never been her patient.
“Sorry, but your next available slot isn’t until the end of the month,” the girl persisted. “New bookings open on Monday for the next two weeks. Or you could see another doctor,” Emily suggested wearily. Some of her colleagues resented how many women insisted on seeing her specifically.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
And then it clicked. Emily recognized her…
***
“Hello, darling!” The office door flew open without a knock, and in breezed Ingrid, trailing an expensive cloud of perfume.
“Ingrid, how many times must I tell you to knock? A patient could be in the chair.”
“No one’s in the hallway, so you’re free,” her friend replied breezily. “Fancy a coffee? There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Say it here. Why must everything require a café trip?”
“Because that torture chair of yours gives me the heebie-jeebies. How do you work here?” Ingrid wrinkled her perfect nose.
“Well, seeing as I help bring babies into the world, I’d say it’s a rather noble calling. Fine—let me change.” Emily disappeared behind the partition.
“Shame you couldn’t manage it for yourself,” Ingrid muttered under her breath.
“Low blow,” Emily’s voice floated back, sharp but resigned.
“Sorry, Em. That was thoughtless.”
“Make it up to me with coffee and cake.” Emily reappeared, forcing a smile.
The café next door was a refuge for clinic staff and patients alike. At this hour, the midday lull meant they had the place mostly to themselves. They settled at a quiet table and ordered.
“You had something to tell me,” Emily prompted once the waiter left.
Ingrid rummaged in her bag for her phone.
“Out with it. Are you pregnant?”
“God, no. Oli’s daughter is more than enough. Never knew raising someone else’s kid would be this exhausting. Was I that much of a terror?”
“Spit it out, Ingrid. I’m knackered.”
The coffee arrived. Ingrid took a sip, then swiped through her phone before sliding it across the table.
“Look.”
“James. So?” Emily tried to hand it back, unimpressed.
“Look *closer*. Who’s next to him?” Ingrid narrowed her eyes—her tell when agitated.
“Some girl. What of it?”
“Keep swiping.”
The next photo showed James helping the girl into her coat, his arm lingering. Then—a kiss.
“Well? Recognise the place?” Ingrid’s tone held no triumph, only regret.
Emily’s face fell. “Why show me this?”
“Because you deserve to know. Forewarned is forearmed. James is cheating. I stumbled on them at The Ivy. Thought you might be there too—until *she* appeared. He didn’t even notice me. The way he looked at her, Em…”
Emily stood abruptly.
“Wait—I shouldn’t have—where are you going?”
A curt wave silenced Ingrid as Emily marched out. The cold air hit like a slap. She walked blindly, heartbeat drumming in her ears. That last photo burned behind her eyelids.
Fifteen years married. Fifteen years of failed fertility treatments. At first, James assured her it didn’t matter. But over time, they stopped talking about it—though she’d seen his face light up watching friends’ children play.
She’d known this day might come. *Of course* he wanted children. But nothing prepared her for the raw sting of betrayal.
By the time she reached home, anger had dulled to numbness. James wasn’t back yet. She sat blankly before the telly, barely registering his arrival.
“You’re home early.” He loosened his tie.
“Obviously. It’s past nine. Why are *you* late?” Her voice was taut.
“I, uh—” His fingers froze mid-button.
“With *her*?” She thrust her phone at him.
His eyes flickered to the screen. A button popped off his shirt.
“You had me *followed*?”
“Hardly. Ingrid spotted you by chance. Photoshoot, is it? That girl’s young enough to be your daughter. Very creative, James.” She caught the flicker in his expression.
“Or maybe she seduced you? Own it. You want kids—she can give you that. Has she already?” Her voice cracked. “Don’t string us both along. Go to her.”
He stepped closer. “I’m sorry. Expected shouting, smashed china… but this?”
“Leave. Before I prove you right about the china.”
He went. Emily grabbed a half-finished bottle of whisky, poured a reckless measure, and gulped it down. The burn seared her throat. She coughed, swore, but the numbness crept in.
Morning brought a pounding head. Work would distract her.
Two days later, James returned for his things.
“Didn’t want to sneak about like a thief,” he said.
“Take what you need. Where are you living?” Her calm surprised even her.
“A rented flat.”
“If it’s serious, we could sell this place. Too big for me.”
“I’ll think on it.”
They spoke like polite strangers.
“You look terrible,” she noted.
“Funny—yesterday I autopiloted to our street. Only realised at the door…” He grimaced, clutching his chest as he sank onto the sofa.
“James?!” She grabbed the phone. “Ambulance! Man, 42, heart attack—hurry!” Busy tone. She sprinted for the medicine cabinet, shoved a nitroglycerin tablet into his mouth. The second call connected.
He died en route. Massive coronary.
At the funeral, Emily spotted *her*—hovering at a distance behind dark glasses.
“This is your fault!” The words tore out of her. “Let him rest in peace!”
Ingrid gripped her arm. “Not here, Em. People are staring.”
But the girl had vanished.
When the service ended, Emily murmured, “Now I’m truly alone.”
“*I’m* sorry. I never should’ve shown you those photos,” Ingrid whispered.
“Don’t. He’d have left either way.” Her eyes stayed dry.
At the wake, Emily slipped out early. Ingrid chased her. “I’ll walk you.”
“No. Stay. I need to… say goodbye properly. They say the departed linger at first. I’ll be fine.”
Returning to work helped. She told herself James had simply left—not died. The lie made it bearable.
***
“Why are you here?” Emily’s voice was ice.
“I… know you hate me.”
“Correct. You ruined everything.” She turned to the window.
“James said you were the best OB-GYN.” The girl’s voice wavered.
“*James*?” Emily whirled around. “Let me guess—you’re here for an abortion. Thought a baby would trap him, but now he’s gone?”
“No! I’m too far along. I can’t raise her alone—my dad drinks, my mum said she’d disown me. I’m still at uni. James paid my rent, but now…” The words tumbled out.
“Ah. So it’s money?” Emily’s laugh was brittle.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
“And you didn’t think of contraception?”
“I did! But he *wanted* the baby. Said he’d help. That you two…”
“How much do you need?” Emily cut in.
“£3,000. Just till the birth. My landlord won’t let me stay with a baby.”
“Six months? Doesn’t show. Boy or girl?”
“Girl. James wanted to name her Margaret. After his mum.”
Emily exhaled. “Fine. But see Dr. Hughes—top of her field. Understood?”
The girl nodded, tearful.
***
Ingrid stormed in later. “You’re *actually* giving her money? Wake up—she’s scamming you!”
But Emily’s mind was made up. The girl seemed lost, not conniving.
“She’s from some nowhere town. James never promised marriage. *I* made him leave. Maybe he’d have stayed if…”
“Ingrid, how many girls have I seen sobbing in my office after abortions? Then years later, begging for fertility treatments? Some mistakes can’t be undone.”
“You’ve lost the plot,” Ingrid hissed.
“Put yourself in my shoes. Would you throw her out?”
After Ingrid left, Emily transferred the money.
The girl never returned. Emily tried not to wonder—had she gone home?
New Year loomed. No tree. No cheerThe doorbell rang again on Christmas Eve, and this time, when Emily opened it, there stood the girl—pale and shivering—with tiny Margaret bundled in her arms, her whispered plea hanging in the frosty air: “I can’t do this alone, and she deserves more than me.”
