Long ago, in the bustling streets of Manchester, William Thompson and his wife Margaret set out to visit their daughter. As they stood outside the flat where their Emily lived, William noticed Margaret’s trembling hands.
“Love, what’s the matter?” he asked, studying her face.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just… we haven’t seen Emily in ages, and it’s got me a bit emotional,” Margaret forced a smile, though her voice wavered.
They climbed the stairs to Emily’s door. William pressed the buzzer firmly. No answer.
“Odd. Is she not home?” he muttered, glancing at Margaret before pressing it again.
The lock clicked, the door creaked open, and William froze, stunned by what he saw.
***
Her father stood rigid, his face crimson with anger. Margaret seized his arm, pleading, “William, calm down, for heaven’s sake! Remember your blood pressure! Let’s just talk to Emily.”
But William jerked his arm free, his voice low and dangerous. Emily, standing in the doorway, felt a chill down her spine—her father had never looked at her like this before.
“Let go, Margaret! Enough of this! You should’ve been keeping an eye on our girl, not me!”
“William, darling, please!” Margaret’s eyes darted between husband and daughter, helpless to ease the tension.
Six months prior, William had suffered a severe hypertensive episode. The doctors had warned against stress. Yet just yesterday, he’d announced abruptly, “Pack your things, Margaret. I can’t sit still any longer. Three months of excuses, and she won’t come home. Something’s not right. You’re her mother—why aren’t you saying anything?”
Margaret had stayed silent. Not because she didn’t know, but because she knew too much. She and Emily had hidden the truth, hoping to resolve it quietly. They’d planned to tell him later, endure his anger once all was settled. But now—what could she say? What could she do?
“She’s just tired, studying, working odd jobs. She promised to visit soon—you know how she is,” Margaret babbled, but William was already pulling on his coat.
He snatched his wallet, keys, phone, and even took Margaret’s mobile. “Don’t you dare warn her! Am I her father or not? I saw how she preened before the mirror last summer—turning this way and that, fussing with her hair. And about whom? Not a word! Something’s wrong. We’re going to see her.”
On the train, Margaret tried to explain, then sighed. “You’re rushing things. Emily wanted to tell you herself once everything was sorted. She didn’t want to worry you, with your condition.”
“Enough about my condition, Margaret! I’m her father—I deserve to know what’s happening! I’ve got a bad feeling about this!” William snapped.
“Fine, ring the bell,” Margaret sighed, squeezing his hand.
The door didn’t open right away. Emily had hesitated, peering through the peephole. But she couldn’t leave her parents on the step.
“I knew it! Emily, who is he? Whose child is it? Why did you hide this from us?” William’s voice trembled with fury and hurt.
He stumbled onto the landing, clutching his chest.
“Dad, why are you sitting out there? Come back inside!” Emily, her belly now rounded, looked lost and afraid.
His clever girl, his pride—gone off to university on a scholarship, and now this? What now? William swallowed the lump in his throat. If he didn’t protect her, who would? He had to find this lad, have a word, sort it out!
“Dad, I meant to tell you later, once things were settled. But now… he’s been in an accident. He’s in hospital!” Emily burst into tears like a child.
William stood, dusted off his trousers, and suddenly grew calm. So what if there was a child? They were all alive. They’d manage—they’d weathered worse.
Emily had been their late blessing, arriving when they’d given up hope. She’d been the smallest in her class but so serious—never misbehaving, reading at break, top marks all around. She’d won a place at uni, worked part-time, shared a flat with friends. Last summer, they’d all visited the countryside—everything had seemed fine…
“Margaret, did you know? You knew and said nothing?” he asked, instantly regretting his sharp tone.
Margaret lowered her eyes. “William, you were ill. The doctor said you needed rest…”
“Right. Enough of this. Let’s go inside, Emily. Tell us everything, properly.”
Emily explained how she’d met James. He worked at the same firm where she had a part-time job. He’d helped her, then they’d started seeing each other. James had said he wanted her by his side forever—to marry her. But he’d confessed: he’d been married before. A rushed wedding after school, pushed by their mothers, who were old friends. He and his ex, Sophie, had been like siblings, nothing more. They’d divorced when Sophie fell for another man, but paperwork dragged. Then Sophie claimed she was pregnant and wanted him back. The other bloke had left her, and she’d decided James was her best option.
“And you believe him? That the child isn’t his?” William asked sternly.
“Yes, Dad, I do. James doesn’t lie. He’s been with me all this time—she was in another city. He went to talk to her, and then the accident happened. But he’ll recover. He’ll come back—I know it!”
“All right, don’t fret. Give me his name, the town, his number.”
“Dad, no!”
“I won’t do anything—not while he’s in hospital. I just want a word. He’s the father of my grandchild, isn’t he? Might even be my son-in-law one day.”
William wiped Emily’s tears and smiled. “Remember our little rhyme? *‘Hush now, Emmy, dry your eyes, Daddy’s strong and thunderwise.’*”
“I remember, Dad,” Emily smiled through her tears. “Here’s James’s number. Thank you.”
“I’m coming with you,” Margaret said at once.
“Fine. But I’ll talk to the lad alone. What if he’s spun a tale? Or worse. I’ll get to the bottom of it. Keep your phone close, Margaret.”
James was indeed in a hospital in a small town outside Manchester, just moved from intensive care. William flashed an old ID at the desk. “Major Thompson, retired. May I see James Whitmore? Fifth ward? His ex-wife there? No matter. I won’t be long.”
In the ward, a pretty young woman sat beside James. William didn’t falter. “Hello. James Whitmore? I’m Emily’s father.”
James, weak but alert, brightened. “Mr. Thompson? This is Sophie—an old friend, my ex. She’s been a right bother. Fell for some chap who toyed with her, then decided I was the safer bet. Had to go settle it, then the crash happened. Lucky to be alive! I’m sorry—I promised Emily it’d all work out. She trusts me!”
“And this child of yours?” William raised a brow.
“Sophie made it up to reel me back. No child. We’ve only just filed the divorce online. I love Emily, Mr. Thompson. I want to marry her. We’re having a baby. Will you give me your blessing?” James struggled to sit up.
“He really does love only Emily—this is my fault,” Sophie cut in.
“What a mess you’ve made,” William sighed. “What were you thinking?”
“I’ll prove I’m worthy. I’ll make it right!” James said firmly.
“We’ll see. If not, we’ll raise the child ourselves. And I’ll deal with you when you’re back on your feet,” William said, turning to leave.
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson!” James called after him. “I won’t let you down!”
James kept his word. Before the birth, he and Emily married. From the hospital, he carried his wife and newborn daughter home as a proper husband and father.
“Your dad will make a brilliant grandad. We ought to give him a grandson next,” James whispered as the midwife handed him the bundle. “He believed in me. I won’t fail him. What matters is we’re together.”
William approached, offering his hand. “Well then, son. Congratulations.”
“And to you, Mr. Thompson—on your granddaughter. Thank you. For Emily. For everything.” James shook his father-in-law’s hand firmly.
“Be happy, both of you,” William smiled. “When our children are well, so are we.”
