Another Smith…
James felt Emily’s hand touch his.
“What?” He opened his eyes. “Is it happening?”
She gave him a mysterious smile and glanced at the bed beside him.
James turned his head and saw a bundle wrapped in a blanket. He reached out to touch it, but the fabric sank beneath his fingers. It was empty.
“James!” Emily’s anxious voice called from somewhere far away.
His eyes snapped open. Her tense face hovered above him, as if she were listening for something. He shook his head, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream.
“What? Is it time? We still have two weeks…”
“I don’t know,” Emily said. “My stomach hurts.”
James propped himself up on his elbows. “Right. We should call an ambulance.” He turned to look at the bed beside him. No bundle. Relief washed over him as he pushed the vision from his mind.
“Let’s wait. I’m not sure it’s contractions. It’s just cramps. They said to call when they’re ten minutes apart.” Emily looked at him hopefully.
“By the time the ambulance gets here, you’ll have had the baby. Where’s my phone?” James reached for his jeans on the chair. His phone tumbled out of the pocket, landing silently on the plush carpet.
He sat up fully, grabbed the phone, and pulled on his jeans. Behind him, Emily groaned, clutching her stomach.
“Another one?” He shifted to her side of the bed and kneaded her lower back with his fists, just as they’d learned in antenatal class.
“Breathe deep,” he said, inhaling noisily through his nose and exhaling through his mouth.
Emily copied him.
“It’s gone,” she murmured, forcing a smile.
“I’m calling the ambulance.” James jumped up. “No—get dressed. I’ll drive you to the hospital. Faster that way.”
The hospital bag had been packed for weeks, waiting in the corner of the bedroom.
“Documents are in the nightstand,” Emily said, pulling a loose dress over her head.
James grabbed them, spotted a phone charger at the bottom of the drawer, and stuffed it into the bag with the folder.
“Your passport?”
“In the cabinet.” Emily’s voice was muffled by fabric.
James rushed into the living room, rifling through drawers, muttering about why she hadn’t kept everything together. “Right, her phone…”
“Where’s your phone?” he barked.
“Here, on the nightstand,” she replied calmly.
“Emily, I *told* you to keep everything in one place. Like a child,” he grumbled, striding back into the bedroom. “Hairbrush? Toothbrush?”
She gave him a sheepish smile, but it twisted into a grimace as another wave of pain hit.
“Hang on.” He dropped the bag and massaged her back again. Annoyance prickled inside him. He glanced at the clock—5:30 AM.
Emily relaxed for a moment. Then the pain returned.
James tugged on a T-shirt, scooped up the bag.
“Let’s go. Maybe we’ll get downstairs before the next one.”
Emily shuffled to the hallway, hands bracing her swollen belly. James helped her into wide, short boots—her usual stylish shoes long abandoned as her feet had swollen. He draped her coat over her shoulders, pulled up the hood, then yanked on his own shoes. No socks. No time to find them. Bare feet in trainers would have to do.
“Ready?” He helped her up from the low stool, and they stepped outside.
Emily paused in the corridor, groaning as she braced herself against the wall. James sympathised but simmered with frustration—at this rate, they’d never make it to the car, let alone the hospital.
“Come on, love. Nearly there,” he coaxed, steering her toward the lift.
The city was just waking. Lights flickered on in windows. Fresh snow blanketed the roads, slowing their drive.
*Why didn’t we think about timing? Summer would’ve been easier—no ice, no darkness. Next time, plan better…*
Emily’s moan cut through his thoughts.
The roads were empty. James pressed the accelerator.
“Hold on, Em. Almost there. Breathe…”
Every time she tensed with pain, his own stomach clenched in sympathy. But it was nothing compared to what she was feeling. He couldn’t share it—couldn’t make it easier.
Finally, the hospital. He helped her out of the car, half-carried her up the ramp to the doors marked *Maternity Admissions*, shoved them open. Empty.
“Hello? Anyone? She’s in labour!” His voice echoed.
A woman in scrubs appeared.
“Calm down, Dad. How far apart are the contractions?” she asked Emily.
“Closer now,” James answered for her.
“Slippers?” she said briskly. “Help her change. Take her coat and shoes. Documents.”
James obeyed, moving as if underwater. Emily bit her lip, breathing hard.
“Go home. Call this number for updates.” The midwife pointed to a sheet on the wall.
James ignored it, watching Emily disappear through another door. She looked back at him, eyes wide with fear. His stomach lurched. He lunged forward—
“Not your turn!” The midwife blocked him.
God, he loved her. He wanted to say something, *anything*, but his mind was blank. *Good luck* sounded stupid.
“I love you,” he blurted, forcing a smile.
Emily tried to smile back, but pain twisted her face.
He carried her things to the car, sat behind the wheel. By the time he got home, it was time for work. Work? He called his boss.
“Taken Emily to hospital. Can’t think straight.”
“Understood. Went mad both times my wife gave birth. Then panicked they’d mix up the baby.” His boss chuckled. “Call later.”
James wandered the flat, picking things up, putting them down. He grabbed Emily’s pillow, pressed his face into it, breathing in her scent.
“Everything’s fine,” he muttered, setting it back.
*Call now? Or wait?*
He paced, useless. Remembered how they’d met at a friend’s birthday. No love at first sight—she’d seemed too independent, distant. Still, he’d asked her to dance. No other free women around.
Later, his friend admitted his wife had invited Emily *for* him.
He’d walked her home. Conversation stilted. No fireworks. No nervous fluttering like with others. Just… calm.
A week later, he’d called. No games—she’d simply asked where to meet. And somehow, without noticing, he’d stopped seeing other women. She was thirty-two, he forty. Both carried scars from past heartbreaks.
When she’d said she was pregnant, he’d panicked. *A father?* Then joy—their baby would be as perfect as the ones in the clinic brochures.
James snapped back to reality. Waiting alone was agony. He’d go back, stand under the windows. She’d feel him there.
—
From the car, he watched a group exit the hospital. A beaming man led the way, carrying a blue-ribboned bundle. Behind him, a exhausted woman held flowers. Relatives trailed after.
Would *he* walk out like that in a few days?
The happy family drove off.
A dishevelled man burst out, coat flapping. James got out.
“Wife in labour?”
“Two days now. Is that normal?”
“No idea. Brought mine in three hours ago. How do we check if she’s had it?”
“Reception.”
Inside, posters of smiling babies lined the walls. A list of visiting hours, allowed gifts…
“Has Emily Smith given birth?” he asked the woman at the desk.
She scanned a ledger. Another woman whispered in her ear. Both turned to stare.
“You’re Mr. Smith?”
Dread punched through him.
“Yes,” he croaked.
“Shoe covers. Coat off. Come with me.”
“Where?”
He knew what this meant. The room swayed. He followed, terrified of collapsing. *God, no. Not like this. Not her.* He remembered Emily—frightened, dress rucked up, eyes wide—
“In here.” The woman stopped at a door labelled *Head of Maternity*.
James stumbled inside, collapsing into a chair.
A man his age stood, handed him water. He gulped it like whisky.
“You’re Emily Smith’s husband?”
Before he could answer, the door flew open.
“*I’m* Emily Smith’s husband!” gasped the dishevelled man.
The doctor looked between them. The other man stared at James.
“You’re *both* married to Emily Smith?”
Understanding dawned. *His* Emily was Emily Grace.
“Wrong Smith,” James breathed. “My wife’s Emily Grace Smith.” He grinned stupidly, then fear returned. “Is *she* okay?”
A phone callThe doctor smiled warmly and said, “Congratulations, Mr. Smith—your wife just gave birth to a healthy baby boy,” and at that moment, James knew his life would never be the same again.
