Oliver felt Victoria’s fingers brush against his arm.
“What?” He opened his eyes. “Is it time?”
She gave him a mysterious smile, her gaze drifting to the bed beside him.
Oliver turned his head—there was a bundle wrapped in a blanket. He reached out, but the fabric gave way under his touch. Empty.
“Oliver!” Victoria’s frantic voice echoed from somewhere far away.
His eyes snapped open. Her face was tense, as if straining to hear something. He shook his head, willing away the last remnants of sleep.
“What? Is it happening? We still have two weeks—”
“I don’t know,” Victoria murmured. “My stomach hurts.”
“Right.” Oliver pushed himself up onto his elbows. “We should call an ambulance.” He glanced at the bed beside him—no bundle. Relieved, he exhaled, forcing the nightmare from his mind.
“Let’s wait. I’m not sure these are contractions. It’s just cramps. They said to call when they’re ten minutes apart.” There was hope in her eyes.
“By the time an ambulance gets here, you’ll have given birth. Where’s my phone?” Oliver reached for his jeans draped over the chair. The phone slipped from his pocket, landing with a muffled thud on the thick carpet.
Fully now, Oliver sat up, grabbed the phone, and pulled on his jeans. Behind him, Victoria groaned, hands pressed to her stomach.
“Another one?” He scrambled to her side, kneading her lower back with his fists as they’d learned in antenatal class.
“Breathe deep,” he instructed, inhaling sharply through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. Victoria mimicked him.
“It’s gone,” she managed, offering a strained smile.
“I’m calling an ambulance.” Oliver shot up. “No—get dressed. I’ll drive you to the hospital. It’s faster.”
The hospital bag had been packed for weeks, waiting in the corner of the bedroom.
“Documents are in the nightstand,” Victoria said, tugging her loose dress over her head.
Oliver grabbed the folder, spotted a phone charger at the bottom of the drawer, and stuffed it into the bag.
“Passport?”
“In the cupboard,” Victoria replied, muffled by fabric.
He stormed into the living room, cursing under his breath that she hadn’t kept everything together. “Her phone—where’s your phone?” he shouted.
“Here, on the nightstand,” she replied calmly.
“Victoria, I told you, keep everything ready. Like a child,” he grumbled, returning. “Hairbrush? Toothbrush?”
She offered a guilty smile, but it twisted into a grimace as another wave of pain hit.
“Hold on.” He dropped the bag, returning to massage her back. Irritation prickled under his skin. The clock read half five.
Victoria relaxed—only for the pain to return minutes later.
Oliver yanked on a T-shirt, grabbed the bag.
“Let’s go. Maybe we can get downstairs before the next one.”
Victoria shuffled to the hallway, cradling her belly. Oliver helped her into her wide ankle boots—her usual shoes long abandoned, her swollen feet refusing to fit. He draped her coat over her shoulders, tugged the hood up, then jammed his bare feet into his trainers. No time for socks.
“Ready?” He hauled her up from the low stool, and they stepped out.
Victoria paused in the corridor, bracing against the wall with a groan. Oliver sympathised, but impatience gnawed at him. At this rate, they’d never reach the car.
“Come on, love. The car’s just there.” He guided her toward the lift. “Nearly there.”
The city was just waking. Lights flickered in distant windows. Fresh snow blanketed the streets, slowing their exit from the driveway.
*Why do people never think about birth timing? Summer would’ve been easier—no snow, no ice. Next time, we’re planning for July.* His thoughts shattered as Victoria whimpered.
The roads were empty. Oliver pressed the accelerator.
“Vic, hang in there. Breathe…”
Every time she tensed, his own muscles tightened in sympathy—but it was nothing compared to her pain. He couldn’t take any of it from her.
Then, the hospital. Oliver helped her from the car, half-dragged her up the ramp beneath the glowing sign: *Maternity Admissions*. He shoved the door open—empty.
“Hello? Anyone? We’re having a baby!” His voice bounced off the sterile walls.
A midwife in blue scrubs appeared.
“Calm down, Dad. Contractions how far apart?” She directed the question to Victoria.
“Closer now,” Oliver answered for her.
“Do you have slippers? Help her change. Take her coat and shoes. Hand me the documents.”
Oliver obeyed, his movements sluggish, as if time had slowed. Victoria panted, biting her lip.
“Go home. Note this number for updates.” The midwife pointed to a printed sheet on the wall.
Oliver’s gaze darted past it—Victoria was already at the far door, staring back at him, eyes wide with fear. His heart clenched. The thought of never seeing her again turned his stomach. He lunged forward—but the midwife blocked him.
“You can’t go in!”
God, he loved her. He needed to say something, anything—but his mind was blank. *Good luck* sounded ridiculous.
“I love you,” he blurted, forcing a smile. Victoria tried to return it, but another contraction twisted her expression.
He’d never prayed—didn’t know how.
Back in the car, he drove home. By the time he arrived, he should’ve been at work. Work? Oliver called his boss.
“Took the wife to hospital. Can’t think straight.”
“Right. Been there twice myself. Then there’s the panic they’ll mix up the baby.” His boss chuckled. “Call me later with news.”
Oliver paced the flat, picking things up, putting them down. In the bedroom, he grabbed Victoria’s pillow, pressed his face into it, inhaling her scent.
“It’ll be fine,” he muttered, setting it back.
*Call now? Or wait?*
He wandered, mind racing. Remembered their first meeting—a friend’s birthday. No love at first sight. She’d seemed too aloof, too independent. Still, he’d asked her to dance. There’d been no one else free.
Years later, his friend admitted his wife had invited Victoria *for him*.
He’d walked her home. Conversation stilted. No nerves, no pretence. Just quiet comfort. No love-struck agony, no games. A day later, he called her. She hadn’t played hard to get—just asked where to meet.
Somehow, without noticing, she’d become his other half.
At thirty-three, she told him she was pregnant. He’d panicked. A father? Then—joy. Their child would be perfect, like the chubby babies in the clinic brochures.
Now, the flat suffocated him. He’d go back, stand beneath the windows. She’d feel him there.
From the car, he watched a group exit the hospital—a beaming father cradling a blue-ribboned bundle, a weary mother with flowers, relatives trailing.
Would that be him soon?
A man in an unzipped jacket stormed out, frantic. Oliver approached.
“Wife in labour?”
“Yeah, two days now. Is it always this long?”
“No idea. Brought mine in three hours ago. Any way to check if she’s had it?”
“Reception.”
Inside, posters of smiling babies lined the walls. Lists of permitted items, visiting hours…
“Victoria Thompson—has she delivered?” Oliver asked the woman behind the glass.
She scanned a ledger, lips moving, when a nurse whispered to her. Both women stared.
“You’re Mr. Thompson?” the nurse asked.
Dread coiled in his gut.
“Yes.”
“Put on shoe covers, leave your jacket. Come with me.”
“Where?”
From films, he knew. The room spun. The babies on the posters melted together. The nurse led him down a corridor. His legs were lead. *God, no. Not like this.* He remembered Victoria’s frightened face, her crumpled dress.
“In here.” She stopped at a door labelled *Head of Maternity*.
Oliver staggered in, collapsing onto a chair. A man his age offered water. He gulped it like whiskey.
“You’re Victoria Thompson’s husband?”
“Is she—?”
“I’m Victoria Louise Thompson’s husband!” A breathless man burst in—the same one from outside.
The doctor glanced between them. The stranger turned to Oliver.
“So… you’re *both* her husband?”
Realisation struck. *His* Victoria was Victoria *Anne*.
“Sorry—repeat the name?”
The doctor did, including the birth year.
“Not my wife.” Oliver exhaled. “Mine’s Victoria Anne Thompson.” He grinned stupidly—then fresh terror gripped him. “He held his newborn son for the first time, the weight of unimaginable relief and joy pressing the storm of fear into silence, knowing life had chosen to be kind to him this time.
