He was only sixteen when he brought her home—a girl already heavily pregnant, a year older than him.
Emily attended the same college but was in a different year. For days, Oliver had noticed this unfamiliar girl huddled in a corner, crying silently. He couldn’t miss the faint curve of her belly, the same clothes she’d worn for weeks, or the hollow, hopeless look in her eyes.
As it turned out, nearly everyone knew her story. She’d been seeing the grandson of a well-known figure in their town, but he vanished one day, claiming some urgent business in the next county. His parents refused to acknowledge her, bluntly telling her she meant nothing to them. Meanwhile, her own family, terrified of scandal like something out of the Dark Ages, threw her out and retreated to their countryside cottage. Some pitied her—others snickered behind her back.
*She made her bed—now she can lie in it.*
Oliver couldn’t just stand there. He weighed it all and finally approached her.
“It won’t be easy, but stop crying. Come live with me—we’ll get married. But don’t expect empty promises. I won’t coddle you or lie to you. I’ll just be there, and I swear we’ll make it work.”
Emily wiped her tears and studied him. Just an ordinary boy, no charm or polish. Not the husband she’d dreamed of. But in her state, she had no choice. So she followed him.
His parents were stunned. His mother begged him to reconsider, but he stood firm.
“Mum, relax. I’ve got two grants—one regular, one hardship grant. I’ll pick up extra shifts. We’ll manage.”
“But you wanted to keep studying!”
“So what? Dad’s worked in a factory his whole life. You’re at the shop. People live 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 eerily quiet, shadowing him to college and back. Then she snapped.
“I’ve had enough! Why do your parents glare at me? They hate me! And why do you ignore me—always studying or disappearing?”
Oliver frowned.
“Did you expect roses? Yeah, they don’t like you, but they let you stay. Your own family tossed you out. The father’s lot? Where are they? And I’m studying so I don’t fail. Extra shifts mean cash—I’m not here to sit through tear-jerker telly with you.”
Emily burst into tears.
“Why are you so cruel?”
“How? I warned you—no lies. Speaking of, when are we filing for the marriage license?”
“I can’t go like this! Buy me a nice dress—high-waisted, to hide the bump.”
“Are you joking? We’re bringing a pregnancy note—who cares about dresses? I need to save for a cot and pram!”
His mum reached for the valerian drops but slowly softened, eyeing baby clothes in shops. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Let them marry—she and Dad would help. But the girl was ungrateful, always moaning about Oliver, the tiny flat, everything. Maybe she’d change after the birth.
She didn’t. When Oliver came home grimy from the car wash hauling a scrawny, mangy cat, Emily flushed with rage.
“You idiot! Why’d you bring that thing here? Chuck it out—now!”
Oliver didn’t budge.
“No. She’s expecting. She stays. Warm up my dinner and quit whinging.”
“Oh, is that it?” Emily shrieked. “Choose—her or me!”
Oliver blinked. “Why? It’s my flat. I pick both. This is my cat now. If you hate it, leave. Even Mum never gave me ultimatums. Maybe stop glaring at everyone yourself.”
Emily sobbed, seethed, grew jealous of the bony stray. Where did he even see a belly? But soon enough, it swelled—she *was* pregnant.
Oliver was exhausted, but whenever regret crept in, he shoved it aside. They’d tough it out. The baby would settle her, and soon the kittens would come—fluffy little peacemakers.
But it didn’t go that way.
Her ex’s granddad—that town bigwig—returned from a long trip and found out. He hunted down his grandson, tore into him, and threatened to cut him off unless his blood heir was raised properly. And that spoilt boy wasn’t about to lose his trust fund.
Emily left college with him that same day, forgetting Oliver entirely. Luckily, she had her ID—she’d planned a clinic visit after classes. Her old things? Who cared—she’d get new ones! No way was she setting foot in that shabby college again.
Oliver was crushed. Not a word, not a call. He trashed her belongings and sat in the dark for hours, clutching his cat.
She understood. Pressed close, purring, just *being* there.
When she went into labour, Oliver delivered the kittens himself, keeping his jittery mum and baffled dad away. He talked her through it, ready to dial the vet at the first sign of trouble.
Four healthy kittens. He changed the bedding, set out food and water, checked them twice, then finally collapsed into bed. Too drained to remember—that day was his birthday, too.
He’d just turned seventeen.
