**A Mother’s Story**
Emily and David were the perfect couple—attractive, successful, comfortable financially—yet they had no children. Doctors could only offer grim diagnoses, shaking their heads.
But they never gave up hope. They attended church, prayed fervently, visited holy sites, and sought help wherever they could. When they heard of an old healer in a distant village, they rushed to see her. The woman assured them they would have a child, even more than one, but warned of pain and loss along the way. Emily, overjoyed, barely listened to the rest, clinging only to the promise that faith would see them through.
Others whispered behind her back. “Why not just enjoy their wealth, travel the world? Children are ungrateful—they won’t even lift a finger in your old age.”
“Too old for this, anyway. Should be thinking of grandchildren by now—though where would they come from without children first?”
Once, Emily told David he was free to find a younger woman who could give him children. The look he gave her silenced her forever on the matter.
They had everything—careers, a lovely home, money—yet happiness remained just out of reach. Emily knew she’d be a wonderful mother. She imagined cradling a tiny child with their features, watching first steps, school days… Sometimes she told herself, “People live full lives without children. Maybe it’s just fate. If God hasn’t granted us one, perhaps I’m not worthy.” She searched her soul for flaws, wondering why she was being punished.
Then, one day, the miracle they’d prayed for arrived.
Emily had stopped tracking her cycle long ago. When nausea struck one morning, she blamed last night’s dinner. But it returned the next day. Then, cooking soup, the smell of meat made her queasy. Surely not… No, impossible! Still, she bought two different tests.
How often do we beg for miracles, only to doubt them when they appear? Emily stared at those two pink lines, disbelieving. She barely waited for David to step through the door before blurting it out, shoving the test into his hands.
They clung to each other, silent, until their tears dried.
David became fiercely protective, forbidding her from lifting so much as a shopping bag. He fretted over her constantly.
“Stop fussing. Women older than me have babies all the time,” she’d snap.
“I don’t care about other women. I only care about you—about both of you,” he’d murmur, kissing her forehead. “Besides, I like taking care of you.”
As her belly grew, neighbours and colleagues took notice. Some rejoiced with them; others didn’t hide their disdain.
“Finally did IVF, then?”
“She’ll lose it, or it’ll be deformed,” one neighbour muttered within earshot. Emily hurried away, stroking her belly. “Don’t listen to them. You’ll be perfect.” She already knew it was a girl.
Once, she’d avoided baby aisles. Now she lingered, selecting the softest clothes, imagining her daughter in them. At home, she’d press a tiny onesie to her cheek, breathing in that new-fabric scent—her daughter’s scent.
When the time came, they booked the best private hospital, opting for a C-section. After so long waiting, they wouldn’t risk a thing. Their daughter arrived healthy. Every day, they thanked heaven for their joy.
Emily couldn’t breastfeed, so they bought the finest formula. They’d watch for hours as the baby slept. Then came first teeth, first words, first steps. David suggested Emily stay home after maternity leave. “No nurseries—she’d just catch every bug.”
Sophie became Emily’s world. A sweet, bright girl, she gave them no trouble.
But happiness, once familiar, fades into the background.
Years passed. Sophie was at school now. One evening, as she did homework and David read the paper, Emily chopped vegetables for dinner. Realising she’d forgotten mayo, she dashed out.
“Back in a sec,” she called.
David barely grunted in reply.
Returning, she finished the salad, then called Sophie—only to find her gone.
“David, where’s Sophie?”
“Ran over to Lucy’s.”
“How long ago?”
“When you left.”
Emily checked the clock—half six. They say mothers sense disaster before it strikes. But she felt nothing. Lucy lived nearby. No reason to worry.
They ate without her. Then Emily called Lucy’s house.
“Sophie’s not here,” Lucy’s mother said. “We thought you’d kept her home. Is something wrong?”
“Not here?” Emily’s voice cracked. The phone slipped from her fingers.
David sprang up. “What?”
“Sophie never went to Lucy’s,” she whispered.
They tore through the streets as dusk fell, shouting her name. Neighbours hadn’t seen her. She’d vanished.
David called the police. “She’ll turn up. Go home in case she does,” the officer said calmly.
They waited, jumping at every noise. Sophie never came back.
Days of searching yielded nothing. Emily forbade herself from imagining the worst, clinging to hope. Months passed. David and Emily stopped speaking, avoiding each other’s hollow stares.
David aged overnight, shoulders bowed under the weight. He worked late, drank more. One day, he packed a bag and left for his mother’s. Emily didn’t stop him. Silence was easier alone.
Three years later, spring arrived early. Emily rarely left the house, but today she wandered to the riverside, tilting her face to the sun. A man played fetch with his Alsatian below. The dog bounded after the stick, returning it proudly.
Sophie had wanted a puppy. David was allergic to cats. They’d argued over breeds—he hated small dogs; she feared large ones like this. “If we’d just gotten one, maybe she wouldn’t have gone to Lucy’s,” Emily thought bitterly.
She knew David wasn’t to blame. But blaming him was easier.
The man and dog climbed the steps toward her. Emily gazed at the water.
“Emily Harris?”
She turned. The detective from Sophie’s case.
“Hello.” She forced politeness. “Is this yours?” Seeing him stung—all those unanswered calls.
“Meet Rex.”
The dog studied her with knowing eyes. She reached out. “May I?”
“Go ahead. He’s gentle with women.”
Rex’s ears twitched under her touch.
“Lovely spring,” the detective—Matthew—remarked.
They walked without discussing it. Grateful he didn’t mention Sophie, she spoke first.
“She wanted a pet. We couldn’t agree. David’s allergic to cats.”
Rex licked her hand. She flinched.
“He likes you,” Matthew said. “I lost my family too. Wife and son died right in front of me. This job… I’m never home. They were crossing the street to meet me. A drunk driver ran the light. My boy died instantly. My wife held on a day.”
His pain mirrored hers. She’d thought her grief unmatched.
“Colleagues gave me Rex. Saved my life.”
They drank tea at his tidy flat—”A neighbour cleans weekly,” he admitted—and talked until laughter came easily. Driving her home, he cut off her directions. “I remember.”
For the first time in years, she returned without dreading the silence. Guilt flickered—thinking of Matthew, not Sophie—but the day had been too kind. “Enough,” she told herself. “Time to live.”
By September, golden leaves crunched underfoot. Emily loved autumn—the crisp air, the scent of decay. And her birthday, long ignored.
This year, she wanted celebration. Wine, cake, a proper meal. She called Matthew—his number still saved from those desperate days.
He answered sharply. “Emily? What’s wrong?”
“Just Em. It’s my birthday. Would you… come over? I don’t want to be alone.”
A pause. Then: “I’ll bring Rex.”
An hour later, he arrived with roses, wine, and a giant watermelon. Awkwardness melted away.
“You think it’s wrong, don’t you?” she said later. “Celebrating while she’s gone. But I’m tired of pain. We’ve made peace—she stays quiet; I don’t push her away.”
Matthew leaned close. “I really want to kiss you.”
A month on, nausea struck Emily at dawn. She remembered this feeling. Bought a test on her lunch break, waited till evening.
At 45, she’d thought it impossible. Yet there they were—two pink lines. “What will people say?” she muttered.
Rex nosed her hand. “I’m having a baby,” she told him. “Don’t tell your master yet.”
That night, cooking, she hummed. Matthew watched from the doorway.
“You won the lottery?” he teased.
“Better. We’re having a baby. A boy, I think.”
He froze, then hugged her tightly. “Registry office tomorrow.”
Guilt warred with joy. A child, a
