**Diary Entry – The Turning Point**
“Liam,” Emma stepped into the room, hands behind her back, a mysterious smile lighting up her face. Her eyes shone with pure joy.
I grinned, anticipating some good news or maybe a little gift. “What’ve you got there?” Even leaned forward from the sofa, eager. “Come on, don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Here.” She held out her hand, something resting on her open palm. At first, I didn’t quite register what it was—smile still lingering but fading fast.
“What is it?” I asked, sinking back into the cushions, putting distance between us as if startled.
“Look!” She stepped closer, still cradling the small object. “I’m pregnant,” she burst out, voice trembling with barely contained happiness.
*Pregnant.* The word echoed in my head. My smile vanished. I stared at her like she’d turned into a stranger.
Her own smile dimmed slowly, like theatre lights fading before the curtain rises. She clenched the pregnancy test in her fist and let her hand drop.
“You’re not happy?” Her voice quivered now—not with joy, but tears held back.
“Emma, we agreed to wait,” I snapped, finding my voice, sharp with irritation. “Did you stop taking your pills?”
“I forgot once, and then—” She sank onto the sofa beside me. I shifted to the far edge, as if she carried something contagious.
“What were you thinking? Why didn’t you tell me? You really want nappies and sleepless nights? You’re still a kid yourself.” I stood, pacing the room.
“Emma, let’s talk about this properly—”
“I’m not having an abortion. He’s already here. I *know* it’s a boy. He’ll look just like you.” Tears glistened in her eyes.
Her words pinned me to the spot. She stared at me with desperate resolve, tears spilling over. A quiet sob escaped her.
“Emma, listen.” I sat beside her, pulled her close, arm around her shoulders. *Screaming won’t help. Gotta be gentle, coax her round…*
She shoved my arm away and stood, as if she’d heard my thoughts.
“I. Am. Not. Having. An. Abortion.” Every word deliberate.
“I didn’t say that. I was just… shocked. Sorry for how I reacted. Come here.” I caught her hand, tugged her onto my lap.
“Silly girl. God, I love you,” I murmured, soothing her, stroking her shoulder. “Don’t cry, alright? Not good for the baby.”
“You’re really happy?” She wiped her cheeks.
“Course I am,” I said easily—while thinking, *Nine months. A whole year. Anything could happen…*
For a while, things felt normal again. I barely noticed any changes in Emma. Started wondering if the test was wrong—heard those things mess up sometimes. Then the morning sickness hit. She turned pale, dull, barely ate.
We used to go out every evening—cinema, pubs, dinners. Now? She barely left the sofa, blaming nausea. The smell of meat made her gag. I was bored stiff, unused to being cooped up.
“Emma, Jack’s birthday’s Saturday,” I said, feigning guilt.
“Go alone. I can’t sit through five minutes at a table right now,” she muttered, facing the wall.
I was relieved. Hoped she’d refuse—just not this easily.
At the party, I revelled in the freedom—joking, drinking heavily. Stumbled home late. Emma was still curled up, back to me.
Then her bump grew. She tossed all night, sighing, struggling to get comfortable—keeping me awake. Became weepy, moody, shut me out. My resentment swelled with her belly.
“When are you two getting married?” Mum asked when I visited. “Past time. Not my first choice for you, but still. Picked a name?”
“Henry. After her dad. Mum, who’d marry a bloke with a bump?”
“Just sign the papers. I warned you—”
“Not this again! Can’t get a moment’s peace anywhere.”
I stopped at a pub on the way home, drank. Barely asleep when Emma shook me.
“Liam. Liam! Wake up.”
“What?” I mumbled, eyes shut.
“I feel awful. Cramping, back hurts.” Her face was tight with worry when I finally looked.
“Ambulance?” I fumbled for my jeans, dug out my phone—dead. Grabbed hers. “Taxi then. Get dressed.”
In the hallway, she sat on the stool, coat over her nightdress. A bulky bag sat at her feet.
“Got your documents? Let’s go.”
We inched downstairs, pausing often. The taxi waited outside.
“St. Mary’s, mate. Quick,” I ordered, sliding in beside her.
Emma gripped her stomach, breathing hard. In the cramped car, her bump looked huge. She whimpered, biting her lip.
“Nearly there,” I muttered, hiding my own fear.
The taxi stopped at maternity. I half-carried her inside, arm hooked around her like a medic hauling wounded.
“Help! Anyone?” I banged on the reception window.
“Keep your voice down.” A midwife’s sleepy face appeared. The door clicked open. “In you go, love,” she said, taking the bag, ushering Emma in. “You, dad—phone this number. Now off you pop.” The door shut in my face.
Through the glass, I watched the midwife lead a hunched Emma away.
“Emma!” She didn’t look back.
Four hours later—a son. Dazed, I went to Mum’s.
“Congratulations. Right, daddy—shopping. Then we’ll celebrate,” she commanded.
We cleared half the baby aisle, barely fitting it all in the taxi. That evening, I drank with mates, noisy toasts, war stories of sleepless nights.
“What’re we celebrating?” A familiar voice behind me. Soft hands on my shoulders. “Hey, handsome.” A head rested against mine—fluffy hair tickling my cheek.
“Jess?” I turned, grinning.
“Easy there. He’s a dad now! Eleven pounds—proper little tank. Sit with us.” A mate handed Jess champagne.
After that—blackout. Woke disoriented, room spinning.
“Rise and shine, daddy.” Jess stood by the bed.
“Your place? How—?”
“Dragged you here. Wasn’t about to take you *home*, was I?”
“Why am I naked?”
“Relax. You didn’t cheat.” She smirked. “People sleep naked. Thought you might… thank me properly.” She leaned in, hair brushing my bare chest. I dodged, sat up—room tilting again.
“Breakfast? Or just leave?”
I dragged on my jeans.
“I’ll wait,” Jess said, locking the door behind me.
Three days later, I arrived at the hospital with flowers, Mum, and Emma’s mum.
“Here you go, daddy.” The midwife handed me a bundle. I expected a cherubic face—got a tiny, red, wrinkled thing buried in lace. Felt nothing but dull surprise.
Home was quiet—until we set him down. Then, squeaking, mewling—like a wind-up toy. The women swarmed him. I stood useless.
That night, shattered Emma rocked him. The second he touched the crib—screams.
“Do something. I’ve work tomorrow,” I begged.
Every night the same. How so much noise came from something so small? I stumbled through work, craving sleep. Emma thinned to a ghost of herself.
Autumn came. Leaves crunched underfoot outside the office. I breathed in the damp air—dreading home. A car honked. Jess lowered the window.
“Get in. You look rough. Fatherhood not all it’s cracked up to be?”
“Not sleeping,” I admitted.
“Come to mine. Rest. Promise I’ll behave.” She laughed.
Next morning—first proper sleep in weeks. Jess made breakfast.
“Cheers, Emma,” I mumbled through toast.
“Jess. But you’re welcome.”
“Did I really—? Gotta run.” I kissed her cheek.
“Need more sleep? You know where I am.”
Days later, I stood at her door again.
“Knew you’d come.” In the hallway, she tugged at my clothes…
I woke hours later—silence. Jess breathed evenly beside me. Rolled over, slept again.
“Can I stay?” I asked at dawn.
“Stay,” she smiled.
On the way to work, I rehearsed telling Emma I wasn’t coming back. We’d been fine—just us. *She* wanted this. I recorded a message—exhausted, done, no regrets—and sent it.
One evening, stuck in traffic, sun glinting off new leaves, I watched a man toss a giggling toddler. A woman smiled nearby—reminded me of Emma.
Suddenly, I remembered our first flat, her glowing when sheHe threw open the door, dropped to his knees beside them, and whispered, “I’m home.”
