I had no idea she existed until today. I couldn’t just send her to an orphanage. She’s my daughter,” the man said.
Emily was humming to herself as she cooked dinner, finally ready to share her joy with James. They had lived together for ten years. At first, they hadn’t rushed into parenthood—life had been good just the two of them. Emily had wanted to focus on her career, to gain experience.
She’d dreamed of working for a prestigious London firm and had promised her employer she wouldn’t plan for children anytime soon. The job was rewarding, with room for advancement, and she had proven herself—now a promotion was within reach. The salary was comfortable, and maternity benefits would be generous. At last, she thought, they could consider starting a family. But it wasn’t so simple. The doctors found nothing wrong with her or James.
“Be patient,” the doctor had said with a reassuring smile. “It happens. You’ve achieved so much professionally, but it’s taken its toll. Try to relax. Don’t obsess over it. Just live, rest more—things will work out.” She prescribed Emily vitamins and sent her on her way.
And then, against all odds, she was pregnant. At first, she couldn’t believe it—surely it was a mistake. She bought two more tests, but the second lines appeared just the same. After a week of agonizing uncertainty, she went to the hospital for confirmation. She and James were going to have a baby! Tonight, she would tell him, and they would celebrate.
As she fried the meat, she strained to feel something—anything. It was far too early, she knew, but she imagined she could sense new life growing inside her. She kept lifting her blouse to examine her stomach in the mirror, disappointed each time it remained flat.
The gas was long turned off, the kettle gone cold, but James still wasn’t home. He wasn’t answering his phone either. Finally, the front door clicked open. From the sound of footsteps, she knew he wasn’t alone. Her heart sank—she’d have to delay her news. A pregnancy was intimate, something just for the two of them.
With a sigh, she stepped into the hallway—only to freeze. A girl of about ten stood there, her expression guarded and defiant. Behind her, James avoided Emily’s eyes.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I had to fetch Charlotte.” He glanced down at the girl’s dark head.
“Who is this? Why did you bring her here? Why didn’t you call?” The questions tumbled out before she could stop them.
“Let’s talk in the living room. I’ll explain everything,” James murmured, nudging Charlotte forward.
Emily stayed rooted in place, watching their retreating backs. When she followed, they were already seated on the sofa. She chose an armchair instead, needing to see their faces. The girl barely glanced at her before turning to the window.
“This is Charlotte. My daughter,” James said. He looked embarrassed, guilty—and yet strangely resolute.
“Your daughter? I don’t understand.”
“I only found out today myself. Her grandmother called—she’s going into hospital. She asked me to take her.”
“And you just *assumed* she’s yours?”
James hesitated. “Everything adds up. I’ll get a paternity test, but I’m sure. Either way, she’ll stay with us while her grandmother’s ill. She has no other family. Her mother died in a car accident six months ago.” He glanced at Charlotte, who sat stiffly beside him. “Let’s eat first. I’ll tell you everything after.”
Emily marched to the kitchen, every part of her rebelling. But she couldn’t turn a child out onto the street. *This is temporary. Just a few days. It’s a nightmare, it can’t be real.*
James and Charlotte joined her at the table. She served roast beef and potatoes but couldn’t bring herself to eat. The girl pushed the meat aside.
“Don’t like beef?” James asked. Charlotte nodded. “What do you like?”
“Spaghetti and sausages,” she mumbled.
“Well, *sorry*,” Emily snapped. “Your father didn’t warn me he was bringing you.” *Already putting on airs, the little brat.*
“And do you want tea? Or do you only drink juice? Sorry, we don’t have any—just tea,” she added, pouring with unnecessary force.
“Emily, *enough*,” James cut in sharply.
She slammed the kettle onto the stove and stormed out, hearing them talk, hearing James—for the first time in years—wash the dishes himself. When he finally came to the bedroom, she sat stiffly on the bed, arms crossed, staring into the dark. He tried to embrace her, but she shoved his hand away.
“Charlotte needs to sleep,” he said quietly.
“Pull out the sofa bed.” Emily fetched sheets from the cupboard, aware of the girl watching them from the corner. Once Charlotte was settled, they retreated to the kitchen, where James confessed his past with the girl’s mother.
“It ended before I met you. I hadn’t seen her since—until today, when her mother called.”
“Why didn’t you warn me? You just brought her here. Do I not matter?” *We’re going to have our own baby*, she wanted to scream—but she held her tongue.
“Emily, I was in shock. I couldn’t leave her. Her grandmother’s dying. What was I supposed to do? Dump her in a home? She’s my child.”
“You don’t *know* that,” she hissed.
“I’ll get a DNA test. Until then—she stays.” His tone left no room for argument. *His decision. Like it or lump it.* Maybe he didn’t even want the baby growing inside her anymore.
That night, she turned her back on him. How could they be close with a stranger—possibly his daughter—sleeping in the next room? She wanted to sob. Their lives had shattered today, and there was nothing she could do.
The hostility between Emily and Charlotte only grew. They avoided each other, barely speaking when alone. The girl did homework or played on her tablet; Emily hid in the kitchen, simmering with resentment. Why now? Just when she’d finally gotten pregnant? Fine—the girl could stay, but *her* child would get all the love.
On Saturday, James left early for the garage. Emily made lunch, then suggested a walk. Charlotte obeyed silently, standing apart from other children in the park.
A wave of nausea hit. Emily stumbled behind a bush—and when she returned, the girl was gone. The other mothers had seen nothing. Emily searched frantically, calling her name, but Charlotte had vanished.
“How could you *lose* her? Where do we even look?” James roared when he arrived.
“Don’t shout at me! She’s *your* daughter! She’s old enough—I only looked away for a second! Take her with you next time!”
“Not yours?” A woman approached, leading Charlotte by the hand.
“Where were you?” Emily snapped.
“Emily, let me,” James said. “Why did you leave? You *never* go off with strangers.”
“I… I thought I saw Mum. But it wasn’t her.” Charlotte’s voice was small.
“You *can’t* do that,” Emily burst out. “What if something happened? What if you’d been hit by a car?”
“She *looked* like Mum,” Charlotte insisted, tears spilling.
“Don’t cry. We were worried.” James softened. “Let’s go home.”
Emily had ignored the dull ache in her belly—until it sharpened, coming in waves. She bit her lip, gripping the banister as they climbed the stairs.
“What’s wrong?” James asked.
“My stomach—” She gasped, doubling over.
“Call an ambulance!”
He hauled her inside, laid her on the sofa, and dialled 999. Charlotte clung to him, wide-eyed. The paramedics’ voices blurred as they examined her.
“She needs hospital. Possible miscarriage. Sir, help with the stretcher. Ma’am, pack essentials.”
“Miscarriage?” James paled. “Emily, you’re *pregnant*? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried—that night—but—”
He helped carry her downstairs, following the ambulance through London’s streets. Hours later, a doctor emerged with grim news: they couldn’t save the baby.
James forgot Charlotte entirely, rushing to Emily’s side.
“How are you? I didn’t *know*—”
“If you had, would it matter? *She* killed our baby. If not for her, he’d be alive.” A sob tore through her. “Just go.”
Two days later, she was discharged. Seeing Charlotte reignited her fury. She felt like an outsider in her own home. The girl had stolen James’s attention—even their bed felt crowded.
Charlotte retaliated. A shattered cup here, a “clumsy” spill there—always when James was watching. Alone, she kept to herself. Emily locked herself in the bathroom and wept.
She barely resisted striking the girl. The tension was unbearable—until the callThen one quiet evening, as Charlotte shyly handed Emily a drawing of their family—all of them together, with a tiny angel hovering above—Emily felt something inside her finally soften, and she pulled the girl into a hug, realizing that love had silently crept in where bitterness once lived.
