“Doctor, just tell me straight!” Emily’s voice trembled, her fingers gripping the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles turned white. “I can’t wait any longer!”
The man behind the desk slowly lifted his head. The light from the lamp reflected off his glasses, hiding his eyes. He set down his pen and took a deep breath.
“Fourteen weeks pregnant,” he said calmly, as if discussing the weather.
Emily froze. The air seemed to leave her lungs. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
“How…” she finally whispered, a lump rising in her throat. “That’s impossible.”
“It’s possible,” the doctor said, covering her file with his hand. “You really had no idea?”
Emily Bennett, a slender woman of 45 with a short chestnut bob and tired but still vibrant green eyes, never imagined she’d be sitting in a gynaecologist’s office at the London Health Centre.
She’d always hated hospitals—the sharp smell of antiseptic, the cold metal of the stethoscope, the blinding white coats—everything reminded her of the motherhood she thought she’d never know. But her GP at the clinic on Orchard Street had been insistent.
“You must get checked, Emily. At your age, you can’t neglect your health.”
And now here she was, in a stuffy office lined with posters about women’s health, where every rustle of paper sounded like a verdict.
“But… how?” Emily pressed her temples, struggling to gather her thoughts. “My husband and I… we…”
The doctor leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk.
“It happens. Congratulations,” he said with a faint smile.
Emily closed her eyes. A whirlwind of thoughts raced through her mind—*I’m forty-five. I’m practically a grandmother. And now…* She exhaled, feeling tears roll down her cheeks.
“*What* choices?!” Emily stood abruptly, her handbag strap digging into her palm. Her voice shook, not with fear, but anger. “Are you seriously suggesting I… *end it*?”
The doctor recoiled slightly at her tone.
“I’m required to present all options,” he muttered, flipping through her chart. “Medical considerations, age-related risks—”
“My baby isn’t a *medical consideration*!” Emily yanked open the cabinet door where her coat hung. “And I’ll be seeing another doctor. One who doesn’t see this as a *mistake*.”
His eyebrows shot up, but he only handed her a prescription.
“As you wish. But do take the vitamins, for—”
“Thank you,” she snapped, shoving the paper into her bag. “Twenty-five years of waiting was enough. I don’t need your pills.”
The door slammed shut behind her with a sharp crack that made the nurses in the corridor jump.
Her phone died just as she dialled her husband’s number. “*Typical*,” she thought bitterly, staring at the black screen.
“Twenty-fifth anniversary next month… and now *this*. How do I even tell him?”
She closed her eyes, remembering their years of trying—endless hospital visits, trips to the Lake District spa (where the scent of pine and hope mingled in the air), even that ridiculous visit to the old wisewoman on the outskirts of York. Chewing on mysterious roots, the woman had muttered, “Your child will come when you stop waiting.” They’d laughed about it in the car afterwards—but now…
“Oh God,” Emily suddenly laughed through her tears, pressing her palms to her stomach. “We already booked flights to Greece for the anniversary…”
The overhead speaker announced visiting hours. A tap dripped somewhere. And in her chest, alongside the long-forgotten fear, something warm and wild stirred.
“*James… he’ll be over the moon.*” She straightened her coat and marched towards the exit.
“Need to charge my phone. Buy a test. Ten of them. And…”
Her thoughts tangled, but one thing was crystal clear: this was a *miracle*.
And she wouldn’t let any doctor’s predictions ruin it.
The stuffy London bus jostled her against the window, but even the crowd couldn’t dampen her thoughts. Over and over, her mind whispered, “*James… He’ll be so happy.*”
They’d given up hope years ago. After endless rounds of doctors, clinics, even that medium James’s uncle had recommended, they’d waved it off. “If it’s not meant to be, then so be it,” James had said, and Emily had nodded silently, hiding her tears.
But now… Now everything had changed. She pressed a hand to her still-flat stomach, smiling. “*He’ll be thrilled*,” she thought, remembering how just weeks ago, James had talked about their neighbour on the seventeenth floor.
“Unbelievable—his *fourth* son!” he’d said, waving his fork at dinner. “And the eldest is already twenty-eight!”
“Isn’t that a bit late?” she’d asked, watching his face light up with rare wistfulness.
“If I were a father now…” He’d trailed off, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t care about age. I’d move *mountains*.”
And now… A sudden idea struck her. “*A surprise!*” Their anniversary was coming—twenty-five years together. The restaurant was booked, the cake ordered… “*The cake!*”
“—No roses—*teddy bears*!” she whispered, imagining James’s confusion when he saw it. She’d tell him then. She pulled out her phone and dialled the baker.
“Hello? Yes, this is Emily Bennett—we ordered the three-tier anniversary cake? Yes, exactly. Listen, I’d like to make a change…”
Her voice trembled with excitement. She pictured it—the cake with little teddies and bunnies, James’s puzzled look, and her smiling confession…
But dreams are fragile.
The days before the party passed in a haze. She barely noticed James growing distant, staying late at work, his phone always face-down.
“Something wrong? You’ve been different lately,” she asked one evening as he stared blankly at the TV.
“Just tired,” he mumbled, avoiding her gaze.
“Maybe see a doctor?” She sat beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“No, it’s fine,” he said sharply, standing. “I’ll shower.”
She brushed it off. “*He’s worried about me*,” she thought. Lately, she *had* felt off—nausea, headaches, exhaustion—but now she knew why. Even morning sickness made her smile.
“He’ll know soon. Everything’s about to change,” she mused, unaware fate had other plans…
The next day, she admired herself in the mirror. The dress she’d bought for the anniversary hugged her perfectly. “*Has it really been so long?*”
The door creaked open. James walked in with a bouquet of white lilies.
“*Lilies again…*” she murmured, but her lips curled into a smile.
“Like them?” he asked, stepping closer, his eyes as warm as they’d been thirty years ago.
“Just like then…” She took the flowers, memories flooding back—the schoolyard, laughter, teasing. *Emily, the proud sixth-former, surrounded by admirers, but none brave enough to climb through her window!*
“Did you *see* him? Like a cat on that ledge!” her friend Lucy had giggled later. “And the *note*—‘You’re the most beautiful girl in the world!’ Chivalry’s not dead!”
“Chivalry?” Lisa had snorted. “More like a *boy* who can’t even grow stubble. How do you *stand* him?”
“I like him,” Emily had shrugged, though her heart had raced.
Especially after the fight.
“Oi, Romeo, where you taking your bride? Maldives or the local duck pond?” teased Mark Pritchard.
“Nah, *she’s* taking *him*—she’ll earn sooner, finish uni first!” added Tom Graves.
James had snapped. Fists flew, the PE teacher pulled them apart. And later, his words, flung over his shoulder:
“You’re only two years older, and I’ll *always* love you!”
Emily hadn’t even had time to reply.
*”They were just jealous.”*
“Remember how my friends tried to warn me off?” James hugged her waist, gazing into the mirror.
“Of course!” Emily laughed. “Lisa called you a *boy*, and Sophie said men *must* be older.”
“But Lucy defended us,” he smirked.
“Her aunt was *nine* years older!”
James chuckled, but his eyes darkened.
“Know what I think?” He kissed her temple. “They were just *furious* they didn’t dare love like this.”
Emily pondered it. Maybe he was right. Mark Pritchard was still a bachelor, Lisa was twice-divorced, and Sophie had married a dull accountant and now complained online about “no romance.”
“Know what I wanted to say to those lads?” James asked seriously.
“What?”
“That I’d win you *anyway*.”
Emily laughed, butAnd as the years passed, Emily rocked her newborn twins to sleep, knowing that life’s greatest gifts often come when we least expect them.
