The phone rang at seven in the morning, and I already knewit was Oliver. Only he would call at such an ungodly hour with the cheer of someone who thought dawn broke at five.
“Yeah?” I grumbled, barely awake.
“Emma, sorry to wake you, but I need a massive favor.”
I sat up in bed. With Oliver, a “massive favor” always meant either disaster or madness.
“Spit it out, then.”
“Ive got a business trip to Buenos Aires. Two weeks. And Sophies six months alongthe doctor says she needs to rest”
“You want me to look after your pregnant wife?” I cut in.
Silence hummed down the line.
“Just make sure she eats properly, gets to her appointments, doesnt overdo it”
“Do you hear how mental that sounds, Oliver?”
“I know,” he exhaled. “But youre the only one I trust. And Sophie adores you. Says youre the sister she never had.”
Brilliant, I thought. The sister who used to be his wife and still isnt sure shes entirely over him.
I hung up, but twenty minutes later, I was at their doorstep. Sophie opened the doorwearing pajamas dotted with ducks, hair a mess, her belly round and glowing.
“Emma! I told Oliver not to bother you, hes ridiculous,” she said, flustered.
“Relax, I dont bite. Wheres your globetrotter?”
“In the bedroom, hunting for socks. Navy ones. Failing, as usual.”
Oh, I knew that ritual well.
“You actually came?” Oliver peeked out.
“Yeah, but Ive got conditions.”
He stiffened. “Which are?”
“No calling every five minutes. Dinner at the fanciest place in town when youre back. And buy Sophie Belgian chocolatesshes been craving them since yesterday.”
“Howd you know?” Sophie blinked.
“Pregnancy radar,” I smirked. “Some things never change.”
When he finally left, it was just usthe ex-wife and the current one, both a bit bewildered.
“Weird, isnt it?” Sophie said, pouring tea.
“Very. But lifes full of weird.”
We fell into a rhythm. Mornings together, breakfasts cooked, chores shared. We binged telly, laughed, talked about everything.
“Be honest,” she asked quietly one day. “Do you still love him?”
I couldve lied. But not to her.
“Yes. Not like before, though. Its love for a memory. Aches but doesnt sting.”
She nodded. “I was scared you hated me.”
“Tried,” I chuckled. “But youre too lovely to hate.”
At her next scan, when the tiny heartbeat flickered onscreen, she squeezed my hand.
“See? Thats him.”
And I dida little life spun from a past Id once shared with that man. It hurt and yet, somehow, it didnt.
“Proper handsome,” I said.
“Dyou think Oliver will cry when he sees the photo?”
“Guaranteed. He cried at the end of *Love Actually*.”
We laughed. We cried. We became friends.
One evening, while chopping veg, Sophie asked, “Why did you two really split?”
I set the knife down. “We were opposites. Meorder. Himchaos. I was quiet; he was a storm. We loved but couldnt live together.”
“And with me?”
“You balance him. I just stirred the pot.”
She smiled through tears. “Youre amazing, Emma.”
“Nah. Just learned to let go.”
When Oliver returned, Sophie nearly knocked him over. He showered me in thanks.
“Youre an angel, Em.”
“An angel who wants Michelin-starred steak,” I reminded him.
They laughed. I watched them and realizedyes, I still loved him. But now it was love without demands. Love that could rejoice in their joy.
“This kids got the worlds best aunt,” Oliver said, staring at the scan photo.
“Aunt?” Sophie raised a brow.
“Course,” I grinned. “After two weeks, Im officially part of this mad little family.”
“Sure you want in on this chaos?” he joked.
“Too late to back out now,” I said. “Someones got to stop you naming the baby *Percival*.”
“Whats wrong with Percival?!” Sophie gasped.
We all dissolved into laughter.
So I became “Auntie” to my ex-husbands child and his wonderful wife. And you know what? I didnt feel lonely anymore.
My story mightve sounded like a bizarre soap opera, but it had everythinglaughter, pain, tenderness, forgiveness.
And when, months later, Sophie called and said, *”Emma, we want you to be his godmother,”* I just laughed and replied,
“Well, now Im stuck with you lot for life.”
