Another Williamson…
James felt Emma’s fingers brush against his arm.
“What?” He opened his eyes. “Has it started?”
She gave him a mysterious smile and glanced at the bed beside him. James turned his head and saw a bundle. He reached out to touch it, but the blanket sank beneath his fingers. The bundle was empty.
“James!” Emma’s anxious voice called from somewhere far away.
He opened his eyes again, this time seeing her tense face, as though she were listening for something. He shook his head, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream.
“What? Has it started? There’s still two weeks left—”
“I don’t know,” Emma said, pressing a hand to her stomach. “It hurts.”
“Right.” James propped himself up on his elbows. “We should call an ambulance.” He turned to look at the bed beside him. No bundle. Relief washed over him as he pushed the strange vision from his mind.
“Let’s wait,” Emma said, hopeful. “I’m not sure if they’re contractions. It might just be false labour. They told me to call when they’re ten minutes apart.”
“By the time the ambulance gets here, you’ll have given birth. Where’s my phone?” James reached for his jeans draped over the chair. His phone slipped from the pocket, muffled by the thick carpet.
Now fully awake, James sat up, grabbed the phone, and pulled on his jeans. Behind him, Emma groaned, clutching her stomach.
“Was that a contraction?” He shifted across the bed, sitting beside her, and pressed his fists into her lower back, just as they’d been taught in antenatal class.
“Breathe deep,” he said, inhaling sharply through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. Emma matched his rhythm.
“It’s eased off,” she said, forcing a smile.
“I’m calling the ambulance.” James jumped up. “No—get dressed. I’ll drive you to the hospital. It’ll be quicker.”
The hospital bag had been packed for weeks, waiting in the corner of the bedroom.
“The documents are in the nightstand,” Emma said, pulling a loose dress over her head.
James grabbed the papers, spotted a phone charger at the bottom of the drawer, and stuffed it into the bag with the folder.
“What about your passport?”
“It’s in the wardrobe,” came Emma’s muffled reply.
He rushed into the next room, cursing under his breath that she hadn’t kept everything together. “Where’s your phone?” he shouted.
“Here, on the nightstand,” she answered calmly.
“Emma, I told you to keep everything close so we can grab it fast,” he grumbled, returning. “What about your hairbrush? Toothbrush?”
She gave him a guilty smile, but it twisted into a grimace as another wave of pain took hold.
“Hold on.” He dropped the bag and resumed massaging her back. Irritation prickled inside him. He glanced at the clock—half past five.
Emma relaxed as the pain subsided, but he knew it would return soon.
James tugged on a t-shirt, lifted the bag from the floor.
“Let’s go. Maybe we can get downstairs before the next one.”
Emma shuffled into the hallway, hands under her belly. James helped her into her slip-on boots—her usual stylish shoes abandoned, her swollen feet unable to fit. He draped her coat over her shoulders, pulled up the hood, and then struggled into his own shoes, realising too late he’d forgotten socks. No time. Bare feet in shoes would have to do.
“Ready?” He helped her up from the stool, and they stepped out.
Emma halted in the corridor, bracing herself against the wall with a groan. James sympathised but couldn’t help the frustration at her slow pace. At this rate, they’d never make it to the hospital.
“Come on, love. The car will be easier,” he murmured, guiding her toward the lift. “Not much further.”
The city was just waking. Lights flickered in windows, and fresh snow slowed their exit from the driveway.
*Why don’t people plan babies for summer? No snow, no ice—just easy.* The thought was cut short by another groan from Emma.
Traffic was light. James pressed the accelerator.
“Just hold on, Em. Nearly there. Breathe.”
Every time she tensed, his own muscles clenched in sympathy. But it wasn’t the same—he couldn’t take the pain from her.
Finally, the hospital. James helped her from the car, half-dragged her up the ramp to the doors marked *Maternity Admissions*, and flung them open. Empty.
“Hello? Someone? She’s in labour!” His voice echoed in the stillness.
A woman in scrubs appeared.
“Calm down, Dad. How far apart are the contractions?” she asked Emma.
“Getting closer,” James answered for her.
“Do you have slippers? Help her change. Take her coat and shoes with you. Documents?”
James obeyed, though everything felt sluggish. Emma panted, biting her lip.
“Go home. Take this number—call later for updates.” The midwife pointed to a sheet on the wall.
James ignored it. Emma stood by the far door, eyes wide with fear. His chest tightened. The thought of never seeing her again made him nauseous. He lunged toward her, but the midwife blocked his path.
“No entry!”
He loved her so fiercely in that moment. He wanted to say something—anything—but words deserted him.
“I love you,” he blurted, forcing a smile.
Emma tried to return it but winced instead.
*God…* He didn’t know any prayers, and if he ever had, they were lost to him now.
He carried her things to the car, drove home. By the time he arrived, he should have been at work. *Work?* He called his manager.
“Took my wife to hospital. Can’t think straight.”
“Alright. Been there twice myself. Then panicked they’d mix up the baby. Buckle up—the worrying’s only just started. Ring me later.”
James paced the flat, picking things up, putting them down. In the bedroom, he grabbed Emma’s pillow and breathed in her scent.
“It’ll be fine,” he whispered, setting it back. *Should I call now, or is it too soon?*
He wandered aimlessly, replaying how they’d met at a friend’s birthday. No love at first sight—she’d seemed too aloof. But he’d asked her to dance anyway. Later, his friend admitted his wife had invited Emma purposely for him.
He’d walked her home. Conversation stilted, no nerves, no games. Just quiet comfort. He’d called her two days later, and she’d simply asked where to meet. Somehow, without noticing, she’d become his other half. She was thirty-three, he forty-one. Both had pasts littered with failed relationships.
When she told him she was pregnant, fear gripped him. *A father?* Then joy. Their child would be as perfect as the cherubs in the clinic brochures.
The present snapped back. He couldn’t bear waiting alone. He’d drive back, stand under the windows—she’d feel him there.
Sitting in the car, he watched a group exit the hospital. A beaming father carried a bundle tied with a blue ribbon. Behind him, a weary woman clutched flowers. Relatives trailed after them.
Would that be him in a few days? The group dispersed into cars and drove off.
A man in an unzipped jacket stormed out, visibly distressed. James approached him.
“Wife in labour?”
“Two days now. Is it always this long?”
“Dunno. Brought mine in three hours ago. How do we check if she’s had it?”
The man jerked a thumb toward the building. James entered the waiting area, where posters of smiling babies and notices about visiting hours lined the walls.
“Emma Williamson—has she given birth?” he asked the receptionist.
She skimmed the ledger. A nurse approached, whispered something. The two women stared at him.
“You’re Mr. Williamson?” the nurse asked.
Dread clenched his stomach.
“Yes,” he croaked.
“Wear these. Leave your coat. Follow me.”
“Where?”
He knew what this meant. The room spun. The babies on the posters blurred.
The nurse led him down a corridor. His legs barely held him. *Please, no. Not like this. This can’t be…* He remembered Emma’s frightened face, her rumpled dress.
“Go in.” She stopped at an office door. The plaque swam before his eyes.
James stumbled inside. A man his age stood, offering water. He gulped it down like whisky.
“You’re Emma Williamson’s husband?”
“What’s wrong with her—”
“I’m Benjamin William Williamson!” A panting man burst in—the same one from outside.
The doctor glanced between them. The stranger turned to James.
“So you’re *both* Emma Benjamin Williamson’s husbands?”
Realisation struck. *His* wife was Emma Marie Williamson.
“Sorry—what was the name againJames held his breath as the doctor confirmed, “Emma Marie Williamson delivered a healthy boy—your son,” and in that moment, the weight of the world lifted, leaving only pure, boundless joy.
