“Doctor, just tell me!” Emily’s voice trembled, her fingers gripping the edge of the desk 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 expression. He set down his pen and took a deep breath.
“Fourteen weeks pregnant,” he said calmly, as if reporting the weather.
Emily froze. The air seemed to leave her lungs. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
“How…” she finally whispered, feeling a lump rise in her throat. “That’s impossible.”
“It’s possible,” the doctor covered the chart with his hand, watching her carefully. “You really had no idea?”
Emily Whitmore, a slender 45-year-old woman with a short chestnut bob and tired but still bright green eyes, never imagined she’d find herself in this gynecologist’s office at the “Wellspring Health” clinic.
She had always hated hospitals—the sharp scent of antiseptic, the cold metal of a stethoscope, the blinding white coats. They brought back memories of motherhood, something she had long given up on. But her GP from the clinic on Willow Lane had insisted.
“You need a check-up, Emily. At your age, you can’t ignore your health.”
And now here she was. In this stuffy room with pamphlets about women’s health, where every rustle of paper sounded like a verdict.
“But… how?” Emily pressed her temples, trying to gather her thoughts. “My husband and I… we were…”
The doctor leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk.
“It happens. Congratulations,” a faint smile flickered in his voice.
Emily closed her eyes. A storm of thoughts rushed through her head. *Forty-five. Almost a grandmother. And now…* She exhaled, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“*What* choice?!” Emily stood abruptly, clutching her handbag until the leather strap bit into her palm. Her voice shook—not with fear, but anger. “Are you seriously suggesting I… get rid of 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 child isn’t a *medical consideration*!” She yanked open the cupboard where her coat hung. “I’ll be seeing another doctor. One who doesn’t see this as… a mistake.”
His eyebrows lifted, but he only handed her a slip with test results.
“As you wish. But at least take the vitamins, for—”
“Thanks,” she tossed the paper into her bag without looking. “Twenty-five years of waiting can’t be undone by your pills.”
The door slammed shut with such force the nurses in the hallway jumped.
Her phone died the moment she tried calling her husband. *Figures*, she thought bitterly, staring at the black screen.
*Our silver anniversary next month… and now this. How do I even tell him?*
She squeezed her eyes shut, remembering their years of trying—endless clinics, trips to the Pinewood Retreat with its scent of pine and hope, even that ridiculous visit to the old midwife on the outskirts of Oakshire. Chewing some herb, the woman had grumbled, *”A babe’ll come when you stop waiting.”* She and James had laughed all the way home. But now…
“Good Lord,” Emily laughed through tears, pressing her hands to her stomach. “We’ve already booked the anniversary trip to Italy…”
The PA system droned overhead about 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 toward the exit.
*Charge the phone. Buy a test. Ten of them. And…*
Her thoughts tangled, but one rang clear: *This is a miracle.*
Let the doctors keep their grim predictions.
The bus was packed, someone’s elbow digging into her side, but nothing could dull the brightness in her mind. Over and over, the same thought spun: *James… He’s going to be so happy.*
They’d given up hope years ago. After endless doctors, specialists, even that soothsayer Uncle Geoff once recommended, they’d shrugged. *”If it’s not meant to be, so be it,”* James had said, and Emily had nodded, hiding her tears.
But now… Now everything had changed. She pressed a hand to her still-flat stomach, hiding its secret, and smiled. *He’ll be thrilled*, she thought, recalling how just weeks ago, James had sat at the kitchen table, wistfully talking about their neighbor.
“Fourth son, can you believe it?” he’d said, waving his fork. “And the eldest is nearly thirty!”
“Isn’t it a bit late at that age?” she’d asked, watching his face light up with rare dreaminess.
“If I were a father now…” He’d trailed off, then shook his head. “Wouldn’t care about age. I’d move mountains for them.”
And now… A sudden realization struck. *A surprise!* Their anniversary was soon—twenty-five years. The restaurant was booked, the cake ordered… *The cake!*
“Doves instead of roses,” she whispered, imagining James’s confusion when he saw it—before she told him everything. She pulled out her phone and dialed the baker.
“Hello? Yes, it’s Emily. We ordered the three-tier anniversary cake… Right, that one. Listen, I’d like to make a change…”
Her voice trembled with excitement. She pictured the cake with doves and bunnies, James’s puzzled look, her smile as she—
But dreams are fragile.
The days leading up to the celebration passed in a haze. She hardly noticed James growing distant—staying late at work, his phone always face-down.
“Something wrong?” she asked one night as he stared blankly at the telly.
“Just tired,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes.
“Maybe see a doctor?” She sat beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s nothing,” he stood abruptly. “I’ll shower.”
She dismissed it. *Worried about me*, she thought. Lately, she’d felt off—nausea, headaches, exhaustion.
Now she knew why. Even morning sickness made her smile.
*He’ll know soon. Everything will change*, she mused, unaware fate had other plans.
The next day, Emily admired herself in the mirror. The dress she’d bought for their anniversary hugged her perfectly. *Has it really been that long?*
The door creaked open. James entered with a bouquet of white roses.
“Not these again…” she whispered, but her lips curved anyway.
“Like them?” He stepped closer, his eyes warm as they’d been thirty years ago.
“Just like then…” She took the flowers, memories flooding back. The schoolyard, laughter, teasing classmates. Emily, the confident upperclassman, every boy’s crush—but only one dared climb through her window!
“He clung to the ledge like a cat!” her friend Lucy had laughed later. “And that note—*‘You’re the most beautiful girl in the world.’* A proper knight!”
“Knight?” Lisa had scoffed. “Some scrawny boy who can’t even shave. Em, how do you stand him?”
“I like him,” Emily had shrugged, though her heart raced.
Especially after the fight.
“Oi, Romeo, where’ll you take your bride? The Maldives or the local duck pond?” Ian Peacock had sneered.
“Nah, Em’s the one paying—finishes school first, earns first!” Tom Nailer added.
James had snapped. Fists flew until the P.E. teacher pulled them apart. After class, his breathless words:
“You’re only two years older, and I’ll… always love you.”
She hadn’t even had time to reply.
*They were just jealous.*
“Remember how your mates tried to talk you out of me?” James wrapped an arm around her waist, gazing into the mirror.
“Of course!” Emily laughed. “Lisa called you ‘some scrawny boy,’ and Julie Armless swore men should be older.”
“Lucy defended us,” he smirked.
“Her aunt was nine years older than her husband!”
James chuckled, but shadows flickered in his eyes.
“Know what I think?” He kissed her temple. “They were mad they’d never dare love like we did.”
Emily pondered it. Maybe he was right. Ian Peacock stayed a bachelor, Lisa Catsworth divorced thrice, and Julie Armless married a dull accountant, now moaning online about *”no romance.”*
“Know what I wanted to say to those lads?” James asked suddenly.
“What?”
“That I’d win you anyway.”
Emily laughed, but her heart twinged. He *had* won her. And all these years, envy had whispered around them.
But now—James, the man she’d shared decades with, stood before her holding the same flowers, his gaze suddenly cold.
Where had the warmth gone? Emily tensed. James didn’tAnd as the first snow of winter drifted past the window, wrapping their home in quiet stillness, Emily rocked both children to sleep, their breaths soft and even while James’s old watch ticked forgotten on the dresser—proof that time, like love, could rewrite its own rules.
