It was an absolute horror. Just four days before, my wife had passed away bringing our daughter into the world. The pain was unbearableElizabeth hadnt even held our baby. All I wanted was to go back to London.
“Is this child really yours, sir?” the airline staff demanded, her tone sharp.
“Of course she is. Shes barely four days old. Let me through,” I snapped, my voice cracking with exhaustion and fury.
“Im sorry, but infants under seven days arent permitted to fly. Those are the rules,” she said dismissively before turning away.
My heart pounded. “Are you serious? Ive got no one here! My wife just diedI need to get home!”
She barely glanced back. “No exceptions.”
Defeated, I slumped onto a bench, my newborn cradled against me. The airport buzzed around us, but I felt utterly alone. Then, like a flicker of hope, I remembered herthe one person who might help.
Fumbling for my phone, I dialled.
* * *
Time had been against me from the start. The call had come out of nowherea hospital in Manchester, informing me I was named as father to a baby girl. At first, I thought it a sick prank. But then I rememberedElizabeth had been there on a surprise getaway, a gift Id arranged while renovating our home.
Wed never had children of our own, though wed adopted three beautiful kids. Adoption had always been part of our plan, ever since I was a boy in care, vowing to give others the home Id lacked. “If I can help them become their best selves,” I’d tell Elizabeth, “thats enough.”
Before her, thered been Clairemy first wife. Our marriage ended when she cheated with the builder working on our house. The betrayal stung, but I rebuilt. Then came Elizabeth, and with her, hope. When she finally fell pregnant, it felt like a miracle.
Id thrown myself into renovationsnursery walls, extra space, dreams of laughter filling the halls. The trip was meant to be her last break before motherhood. But then came the call: early labour, complications, Elizabeth gone before she even held our child.
I flew to Manchester at once. At the hospital, I was met by Margaret, an 83-year-old widow who volunteered there. She led me to a quiet room.
“My condolences,” she murmured. I shattered then, sobbing into my hands. She waited, patient as stone. When I could speak, she asked gently, “Can you care for this child?”
I told her about our adopted three, about the home waiting. Satisfied, she handed me her number. “Ring me if you need anything,” she said.
Days later, at the airport, they refused to let us board.
“Her birth certificate, sir,” the agent insisted. “And she must be seven days old.”
Panic gripped me. Where would we stay? ThenMargaret.
She arrived within the hour, taking us into her warm, cluttered house. For over a week, she guided mehow to hold the baby, how to feed her, how to grieve. She helped arrange Elizabeths return to London. My daughter adored her; the moment Margaret spoke, she quieted.
Margaret spoke of her own lifefour children, nine grandchildren. We walked through her garden, remembering her late husband. In her, I saw the mother Id lost long ago.
When the paperwork cleared, we returned to Londonbut I never forgot her. Every year, we visited. Then, one day, she was gone.
At her funeral, the solicitor read her will. Shed left me a shareequal to her own children. In her honour, I donated it to a charity we founded together. Among her children was Dorothy, the eldest. Over time, our friendship deepened, then bloomed into love. She became my wife, mother to our six childrenand the final gift Margaret ever gave me.
