**When Fate Gives a Second Chance**
I was barely awake when the front door creaked open. “You’re home early…” I mumbled, fumbling with my shirt—inside out, as usual. But Oliver wasn’t listening. He stood frozen in the hallway, gripping the doorframe, face pale as he stared at the pair of shoes by the entrance. Not just any shoes—Chelsea boots. And not just any boots. I’d recognise them anywhere. Sarah’s. My best friend.
It had started hours earlier, around mid-morning at work. A wave of nausea hit me out of nowhere—sharp, dizzying. Maybe stress, I told myself. Maybe lack of sleep. But my colleague, Emily, leaned in with a whisper: “You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I brushed her off, stomach twisting. But I knew. Twenty minutes later, I was locked in the office loo, staring at two solid blue lines.
I don’t remember asking my manager for the day off. Don’t remember the Tube ride home. Only this—bursting through the door, heart racing, desperate to see Oliver’s face when I told him. To collapse into his arms, laughing and crying at once.
Then—the boots. His voice, hushed, from the bedroom. A giggle. My stomach dropped. No, no, not possible. I flung the door open—and there he was. Shirtless. And Sarah, clutching the bedsheet to her chest.
“Olivia? What—?” he stammered. Sarah wouldn’t meet my eyes.
Blur. Screaming. Tears. A vase shattered against the wall. Silence. Then—nothing. Just me, kneeling on the scratched hardwood, hands pressed to my stomach. Something tiny fluttered beneath my fingers.
Days passed. A decision hardened. I wouldn’t tie myself to Oliver forever. Couldn’t do this alone. My parents were in Bristol. My friends? One fewer now. My salary barely covered rent, let alone nappies. So—I booked the appointment.
The clinic smelled like antiseptic. I sat stiffly, eyes fixed on the sterile white wall. Terrified. I didn’t want this baby.
…Did I?
“Ms. Bennett? Come in.”
I stood, stepped inside—and froze.
“Daniel?”
My secondary school crush. The boy who’d kissed me behind the bike sheds after prom—soft, sweet, the kind of memory that lingers.
“Liv?” He shot up, pulling me into a hug like no time had passed. We talked—properly talked—for the first time in fifteen years. And when the adrenaline faded, he squeezed my hand.
“But you’re here for a reason. What’s wrong?”
I told him everything. The betrayal. The baby. The choice.
His voice was gentle. “You’re sure this is what you want?’
“I can’t do it alone,” I whispered.
