A Woman’s Story
Emma and James were seen as the perfect couple—both attractive, successful, and well-off, except for one thing: they had no children. Doctors could only offer grim diagnoses, leaving them with little hope.
But they refused to give up. They visited churches, prayed fervently, and sought out every possible remedy. Rumours of an old healer in a distant village sent them rushing to her doorstep. The woman assured them they would have not one child, but through pain and loss. Emma, overjoyed, barely listened to the rest, clutching only the promise that faith would see them through.
“Live for yourselves,” people whispered behind Emma’s back. “Travel, enjoy your money—why make a tragedy of it? Children grow up ungrateful anyway.”
“She’s too old,” others muttered. “Should be thinking of grandchildren by now.”
But how could there be grandchildren without children?
Once, Emma told James he was free to leave, to find a younger woman who could give him the family he longed for. The look he gave her silenced her forever. They carried on—wealthy, accomplished, yet feeling an emptiness no success could fill.
Emma knew she would have been a wonderful mother. She imagined cradling a tiny version of herself and James, watching first steps, school days… Sometimes she tried to convince herself: “Plenty live happily without children. It’s fate. If God hasn’t given us one, maybe we don’t deserve it.”
Then, against all odds, the miracle they had prayed for arrived.
Emma no longer tracked her cycle, so when nausea struck one morning, she blamed a bad meal. But it returned the next day, and the smell of cooking meat sent her rushing to the bathroom. Could it be? No—it couldn’t. Still, she bought two tests.
How often do we beg for miracles, only to doubt them when they come? Emma stared at the twin pink lines, disbelieving. She barely waited for James to step through the door before blurting, “I’m pregnant,” thrusting the test at him.
They clung to each other, tears drying on their cheeks, their long wait finally over.
James became fiercely protective, banning her from lifting anything, even groceries. “Stop fussing,” she scolded. “Women older than me have babies all the time.”
“I don’t care about other women,” he said, kissing her. “I only care about you and our child.”
As her bump grew, reactions split. Some rejoiced with them; others muttered behind cupped hands. “Bet they used IVF,” one whispered. “Won’t carry it to term,” another hissed. Emma walked away, stroking her belly. “Don’t listen. You’ll be perfect.” She already knew it was a girl.
Once avoiding baby aisles, she now lingered over tiny dresses, pressing them to her face, imagining her daughter in them.
When the time came, they booked the best private hospital, opting for a C-section—too much was at stake. Their daughter, Lily, arrived healthy. Every day, they thanked whatever forces had granted them this joy.
Emma couldn’t breastfeed, so they bought the finest formula. They spent hours watching Lily sleep, celebrating first teeth, words, steps. James insisted Emma stay home after maternity leave. “No nurseries—she’ll only pick up illnesses.”
Lily became Emma’s world. The girl grew up loved, bright, and kind—no trouble at all.
But happiness, once taken for granted, fades into routine. By Lily’s school years, life settled into quiet evenings—homework, newspapers, dinner prep. One night, realising she’d forgotten mayonnaise, Emma dashed to the shop. “Back in a minute,” she called. James grunted, absorbed in his paper.
Returning, she finished dinner, then called for Lily. “Where is she?”
“Went to Sophie’s,” James said absently.
Emma checked the clock—half six. No foreboding twisted her stomach. Sophie lived next door; what was there to fear?
They ate without waiting. Later, Emma called Sophie’s mother. “Lily’s not here,” came the reply.
The phone slipped from Emma’s hand.
They tore through the streets, shouting her name, but Lily had vanished. Police reassured them, “Go home—she might turn up.” She never did.
Days, then months passed. James greyed overnight; Emma functioned mechanically. They stopped speaking, unable to bear the mirrored despair in each other’s eyes. James drowned in work; Emma took a job to numb the grief. Colleagues tiptoed around her until holiday chatter about children forced her from the room.
She blamed James. “You let her go. This is your fault.” He didn’t argue. Soon, he left, and she didn’t stop him.
Three years later, spring arrived unseasonably warm. Emma rarely left the house, but sunlight coaxed her out. By the river, a man played fetch with a German shepherd. The dog bounded after the stick, returning proudly. Emma remembered Lily begging for a pet. James had allergies; they’d delayed, arguing over breeds. “If we’d just gotten one…”
The man climbed the steps, and Emma turned—only to freeze. Detective Harris, who’d handled Lily’s case.
“Hello,” she said stiffly. The dog regarded her with unsettling intelligence. “May I?”
Harris nodded. “Rick likes women.”
The dog’s ears twitched under her touch. They walked in silence until Harris spoke. “I lost my family too. A drunk driver. My colleagues gave me Rick. Saved my life, really.”
Emma’s guilt eased—she wasn’t alone. Harris had searched for Lily despite his own loss.
He invited her for tea. His flat was tidy but lifeless. “Neighbour cleans weekly,” he admitted. They talked until laughter came easily. Driving her home, he interrupted her address: “I remember. And call me Matthew.”
For the first time in years, she didn’t dread the empty flat.
By September, leaves crisped underfoot. Emma’s birthday—uncelebrated since Lily—loomed. She bought wine, cake, cooked a feast, then called Matthew.
“You’re… not busy?”
He arrived with roses, wine, and a watermelon. Awkwardness melted. “I’m tired of pain,” she confessed. “Lily and I made peace.”
“I’d really like to kiss you,” he said.
A month later, morning nausea struck. Emma bought a test, disbelieving. At 45, after years of failure, how?
Rick nosed her hand as she stared at the result. “I’m having a baby,” she whispered.
That evening, Matthew found her humming. “You’re glowing,” he said.
“It’s a boy,” she blurted.
Stunned, he hugged her. “Registry office tomorrow.”
Guilt prickled—how could she be so happy? But as she glanced at Lily’s photo on the wall, the girl in it seemed to smile.
Life, against all odds, had begun again.
