“Well, this is awkward,” the girl muttered.
“You’re his *wife*?”
“In every legal sense. I can even show you the stamp in my passport. Didn’t bring the certificate, sorry,” the woman replied, resting a hand on her heavily pregnant stomach.
***
“Love, I’m off to the rig next week—signal’s rubbish out there, so don’t lose touch, alright?” said Arthur Wilkinson.
“Don’t worry about the cat. I’ll pop round to feed him and clean the litter,” mumbled Emily, eyes glued to her phone.
“About the cat…” Arthur hesitated. “Look, love, no need to trek all the way over after work just for him. Mrs. Jenkins upstairs—you know, the neighbour?—she’ll drop in to check on Whiskers now and then.”
“You’re acting weird, Dad,” Emily smirked. “Your neighbour’s a proper saint, isn’t she? Feeds the cat, picks up milk, even grabs your prescriptions after work. Lucky you.”
“Yeah… lucky me.”
Arthur suddenly felt a pang of guilt for lying *again*. His brows furrowed, and he forced himself to think of something else—anything—to keep the worry off his face. *She’s just teasing me. She doesn’t suspect a thing.*
…Arthur and Emily’s mum had split seven years ago. No drama, just a quiet agreement that the love had fizzled out. They’d talked it through with Emily first, and she’d taken it well—on one condition: family holidays stayed *family* holidays. Everyone was happy with that.
“So I’m the *neighbour* now?” Sophie arched an eyebrow, amused.
“Couldn’t think of anything else,” Arthur mumbled, avoiding her eyes.
“Calling me your wife is *such* a stretch, I get it.”
“Sophie, don’t take it like that.”
“I’m a grown woman, Art. But how long are we going to keep this charade up?”
“I don’t *know*,” he groaned. “What if she *hates* it? When she was little, she’d panic if she thought one of us was leaving. Kept asking if we’d abandon her. Feels like I’m betraying her.”
“Look, I’m not meddling in your dad-daughter stuff. But in two months, you’ll have *two* daughters. Time to man up, yeah? I’m not forcing you to choose—God, no—but how exactly do you hide a *newborn*?”
“We’ll figure it out,” Arthur said weakly, though he had *no* idea how.
He’d met Sophie just after the divorce. Knew straight away she was the one. But admitting it to his family? Impossible. He’d feared Emily would shut him out, or that his ex-wife would poison their relationship.
First, he’d fretted over Sophie being a decade younger. Then over marrying her in secret. And now? Now he was terrified about the baby. But with her due date looming, the truth was about to burst like a blister. *I’ll tell them when the time’s right*, he lied to himself.
Arthur had gone to absurd lengths to hide his new life from Emily—meeting her in cafés, avoiding his own flat. And Emily, sharp as ever, *loved* ribbing him about his “mystery neighbour.”
The morning he got back from the rig, Emily decided to surprise him with a visit. No one answered the door. Or his phone—not on the first call, not on the tenth. Confused, she stepped outside. No mistake: he’d texted from the airport, then again after landing—*”Home soon, call you tonight.”* But he wasn’t home. *He’s an adult*, she told herself. *Probably ran errands.*
“They took Arthur to hospital,” a voice cut through her thoughts.
“*What*? When? *Where*?” Emily spun around.
An elderly woman leaned out of a ground-floor window. “Saw him come back with his kit from the rig. Half an hour later, an ambulance rocked up.”
“Sounded like cardiology. Walked out on his own, thank God—not on a stretcher. Means it’s not ICU,” the neighbour mused. “Recognised you straight off—you’re his girl. Always waiting for your taxi here.”
“How long ago?”
“Hour, maybe?”
Emily was already running. Her hands shook. *Cardiology? His heart’s fine!*
“Ring 999, love,” the neighbour called after her. “They’ll tell you where he is.”
Emily dialled, voice trembling as she begged for details. Minutes later, the operator gave her the hospital name. She jumped in a cab, fighting panic, her dad’s phone still dead.
“Please—they said my dad was brought here!” Emily blurted at the reception desk.
“If he’s admitted, I’ll check. How long ago?” the clerk replied, infuriatingly calm.
“I—I don’t *know*! Maybe an hour? Please, *help* me.”
“Name?”
“Wilkinson. Arthur. Born 12th March 1973…”
“Wait there. I’ll find out.” The clerk vanished, murmuring into a phone, then returned. “Cardiology ward. No visitors—quarantine block. If he’s allowed out, he can meet you in the corridor. Otherwise, leave anything with the nurses. Visiting hours are—”
“*Thank you*,” Emily gasped, sprinting for the main entrance. *If they said he can walk, it’s not bad. Right?*
She barely registered reaching the ward before a nurse scowled. “You’re *not* on time, and it’s *quarantine*—”
“They just *admitted* him! He’s not answering! I don’t even know if he has *clothes*!” Emily’s voice cracked.
A hand touched her shoulder. She flinched, expecting security—but found a heavily pregnant woman, barely older than her.
“Emily. Hello,” the woman said softly.
“Do I *know* you?”
“Not exactly. I know *you*—very well. But to you? I’m just the ‘neighbour’ who feeds the cat and fetches prescriptions.” She forced a laugh.
“What the—? Are you with my *dad*? Did he *call* you?”
“I came alone. The hospital rang *me*.”
“Why *you*?”
“Because… I’m his wife.”
“*What*?”
“Legally, yes. Passport stamp and all. Left the certificate at home.” Sophie shielded her stomach instinctively. “Let’s talk outside. Arthur’s fine—I brought his things. Come on.”
She guided Emily out, scrambling for the right words.
“How *long*? Why didn’t he *tell* me? And—” Emily stared at Sophie’s bump.
“This isn’t how I wanted to meet you. But you know what they say—*want to make God laugh? Tell him your plans*. Your dad’s plan was ‘find the right moment.’ Guess life had other ideas.”
“Why? It’s *weird*.”
“It’s not. He’s *terrified* you’ll hate him,” Sophie said bluntly.
“That’s *insane*! I’ve been worried he was *lonely*—and now he’s got a *wife* and a *baby*?!”
“So… you’re *not* upset?”
“Are you *joking*? This is *brilliant*. Bloody *nursery* behaviour, honestly. No *wonder* his heart’s playing up—living a double life! When can I see him?”
“Emily—can I call you that?” At her nod, Sophie continued, “Ward’s locked down. They *barely* let me in. If they lift restrictions, try tomorrow. No food—he’s on hospital diet. I brought clothes. They’re running tests—maybe a mild heart attack. But he’s stable, walking. Just needs rest.”
Sophie studied Emily’s lost expression—the same hollow look every relative wears outside a hospital.
“Since we’ve met like *this*… fancy coming back to ours? Proper chat, plan how to punish Arthur?” She grinned. “*Non-lethally*, obviously.”
“Bit awkward, honestly…”
“*More* awkward if the baby’s born and doesn’t know her sister! *Come on*.” Sophie looped an arm through hers. “We’re going to get on *famously*.”
