Emma had been feeling exhausted for days. There was so much to do, but all she wanted was to sit—or better yet, lie down and stay still. The mere thought of food made her queasy. A pregnancy test confirmed her suspicions.
Just two years out of maternity leave, barely recovered from nappies and baby clothes, and now this. She was devastated. Oliver would be five soon, and Sophie had just started Year Two. They needed her attention, and soon she’d be preoccupied with a newborn. Would they understand? Would they resent their new sibling?
“A child is a blessing,” she told herself. “Where there’s life, there’s hope.” But the timing felt uncertain, the world unstable—though when had life ever been easy? Women had babies even in wartime. What would she tell work? That she’d soon be on leave again, taking endless sick days?
With three children, could she even keep her job? They’d have to live on Liam’s salary alone. Social benefits would help, but still… Emma agonised in silence, delaying the moment she’d “surprise” her husband.
Not long ago, her boss had asked if anyone planned to go on leave or quit. Understandable, given the office was mostly women. Emma had assured him—boy and girl, her family was complete. And now this.
“Why am I even thinking about work? Family comes first.” But as days passed, she remained torn, weighing every angle, unable to decide.
“You feeling alright? You’ve gone pale, and you’re miles away. I’ve asked three times what to get for Oliver and Sophie’s birthdays—did you even hear me?” Liam finally asked over dinner.
Then it all spilled out. Liam stayed quiet a moment before asking, “What are we going to do?”
Not *you*—*we*. That was why she loved him. He’d never leave her to face this alone. Shame washed over her for keeping it to herself. The weight lifted slightly. She shared her doubts.
“We’ll manage. Two kids, three—what’s the difference?” Liam said firmly.
“But I’ll be on leave. We’ll rely on your salary. Who knows when—or if—I’ll go back?”
“We’ll make it work. I’ll pick up extra shifts. Or… do you want to terminate?” he asked bluntly.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “You’ll be working nonstop, I’ll be drowning in nappies—life will just… slip away.”
“Life slips away with two kids, too. We’ve got time to think, yeah?”
“A little.”
“Then let’s not rush. We’ll revisit this. Though I reckon you’ve already made your choice. Am I wrong?”
“How will we all fit in this tiny flat?” She glanced around the two-bedroom they’d inherited from Liam’s gran.
“I’ll talk to Mum and Dad. Offer to swap—their place has three rooms. Dad suggested it when we were expecting Sophie.”
Emma shot him a sceptical look but stayed silent.
As expected, her mother-in-law dug in her heels. “She’s only pregnant to get the bigger flat. Wrapping you round her finger, as usual.”
“Mum, *I* brought it up. Emma had nothing to do with it.”
“So *you* want to rob us in our old age? We’re settled here. At our age, moving’s a nightmare. But of course, you only think of yourselves.” She clutched her chest dramatically.
“Mum, I just asked. Fine, forget it.”
“Oh, they’ll ‘manage.’ Or maybe Emma could just *not* have it? Two’s enough these days. Save everyone the trouble.”
“Right. Got it.”
Liam’s grim expression when he returned told Emma everything. They avoided the topic after that. Some days she warmed to the idea; others, she dreaded nappies, sleepless nights, being pulled in every direction.
The deadline loomed, but she still wavered. Then she dreamed of a little girl, about five, skipping through the flat with a wicker basket like Red Riding Hood’s. “What’s inside?” Emma asked. The girl peered in, then stared up, eyes wide with sorrow. Emma looked—the basket was empty.
At first, she thought it meant a daughter. But the empty basket haunted her.
“Made a decision yet?” Liam asked one evening.
“I… I don’t know.” She told him the dream.
“Just a dream. If it’s a girl, she’ll be your little helper.”
*He’s so good*, she thought. *I’ll have this baby. With Liam, I can do anything.*
Then came the party at their friends’—a lavish home, the hostess stunning. But their house was silent. “Let them play,” she’d said wistfully as Oliver and Sophie shrieked. “I’d have a dozen if I could.”
“IVF?” Emma ventured.
“Tried. Now I’d adopt, but Mark’s still hoping…” Her gaze drifted.
That settled it. Emma would keep the baby.
Then her mother-in-law barged in. “Changed your mind yet?”
“Too late,” Emma lied.
“Knew it. Too good to use protection, eh? Liam’s working himself to the bone, and you—” She eyed Emma’s waistline. “Breeding poverty, more like.”
“You had one kid and dress like you birthed a football team,” Emma snapped.
“Did you hear that?” the woman spat at Liam.
“You started it. We didn’t ask for judgment—just help.”
“My opinion means nothing now? Fine. Don’t come crying to me.”
As if she’d ever helped.
Days later, Emma left work early for her first antenatal appointment. The sky was grey, leaves swirling in puddles. She daydreamed about summer picnics, baby names, the maternal grant.
Then—a shout. An e-scooter swerved, clipped her. She crumpled, darkness swallowing her before she hit the ground.
At the hospital, Liam got the news: “We couldn’t save the baby.”
“God’s punishing me,” Emma whispered later. “For doubting.”
“Don’t. That idiot on the scooter—he’s to blame. Maybe this’ll get those things banned.”
But guilt gnawed at her. She remembered the dream, the empty basket. A warning she’d refused to heed.
By the time she was discharged, autumn had stripped the trees bare. Stepping outside, she inhaled the crisp air, eyes lifting to the heavy sky—pleading for forgiveness.
Now, every e-scooter sent her flinching to the kerb. Headaches came often, reminders of the loss—the child she’d feared, then mourned.
Funny, how we dread what we later grieve.
Nothing’s accidental. Perhaps the universe heard her hesitation and answered.
**Sometimes, the things we fear losing are the very things we realise we couldn’t live without.**
