The Other Harrison…
Oliver felt Emily’s fingers brush his arm.
“What?” He opened his eyes. “Is it happening?”
She smiled mysteriously, gazing at the bed beside him.
Oliver turned his head and saw a bundle. He reached for it, but the blanket sagged under his fingers—empty.
“Oliver!” Emily’s voice called from somewhere distant, strained with urgency.
He blinked awake to see her tense face, as if listening for something. He shook his head, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream.
“What? Is it time? We’ve still got two weeks…”
“I don’t know. My stomach hurts,” Emily said.
“Right.” Oliver propped himself up on his elbows. “We should call an ambulance.” He glanced at the bed beside him—no bundle. Relief washed over him as he dismissed the strange dream.
“Let’s wait. I’m not sure they’re contractions. It might just be false labour. They told me to call when they’re ten minutes apart.” Emily looked at him hopefully.
“By the time the ambulance gets here, you’ll have given birth. Where’s my phone?” Oliver reached for his jeans draped over the chair. His phone tumbled from the pocket, muffled by the thick rug.
He was fully awake now—grabbing the phone, pulling on his jeans while Emily groaned behind him, clutching her stomach.
“Another one?” He swung himself across the bed, sitting beside her to rub her lower back the way they’d been taught in antenatal class.
“Breathe,” he said, inhaling sharply through his nose, then exhaling through his mouth. Emily mimicked him.
“It’s gone,” she said, forcing a smile.
“I’m calling the ambulance.” Oliver stood. “No—get dressed. I’ll drive you to the hospital. It’ll be faster.”
The hospital bag, packed weeks ago, sat in the corner.
“Documents are in the bedside drawer,” Emily said, pulling her loose dress over her head.
Oliver grabbed them, spotted a phone charger at the bottom, and stuffed it into the bag.
“Passport?”
“In the wardrobe,” Emily called from under the dress.
He darted to the other room, cursing under his breath—why hadn’t she kept everything in one place? “Right, her phone—where is it?” he shouted.
“Here, on the nightstand,” she answered calmly.
“Emily, I told you, keep everything together! You’re like a child sometimes,” he grumbled, storming back in. “Hairbrush? Toothbrush?”
She gave him a guilty smile, but it twisted into a wince as another pain hit.
“Hold on.” He dropped the bag and resumed rubbing her back. Irritation simmered inside him. He checked the clock—half past five in the morning.
Emily relaxed briefly before the pain returned.
Oliver yanked on a T-shirt, grabbed the bag.
“Come on. Maybe we can make it downstairs before the next one.”
Emily shuffled to the hallway, arms cradling her swollen belly. Oliver helped her into her wide ankle boots—her usual fashionable shoes abandoned weeks ago when her feet swelled. He draped her coat over her shoulders, tugging the hood up, then shoved his own feet into trainers—socks forgotten.
“Ready?” He helped her up from the low bench, and they stepped outside.
In the lift, Emily stopped, groaning as she braced herself against the wall. Oliver sympathised but fought frustration—at this rate, they’d never reach the car.
“Nearly there. Once we’re in the car, it’ll be easier,” he murmured, guiding her forward.
The city was barely stirring. Snow had fallen overnight, slowing their exit from the driveway.
*Why don’t people think about birth seasons? Summer would’ve been easier—no ice, no snow.* The thought vanished as Emily gasped through another contraction.
Empty roads meant Oliver could press the accelerator.
“Em, hang on. Just a bit longer. Breathe.”
Every groan from Emily made his own stomach clench—but it was nothing compared to what she felt. He wished he could take some of her pain.
Then—the hospital. Oliver helped her out, half-dragged her up the ramp towards the glowing sign: *Maternity Admissions.* He yanked the door open—empty.
“Hello? Anyone? We’re having a baby!” His voice echoed.
A woman in scrubs appeared.
“Calm down, Dad. How far apart are the contractions?” she asked Emily.
“Getting closer,” Oliver answered for her.
“Slippers? Help her change. Take her coat and shoes. Documents?” she instructed briskly.
Oliver obeyed, feeling as if he moved through syrup. Emily bit her lip, breathing hard.
“Go home. Call this number for updates.” The midwife pointed to a printed sheet on the wall.
Oliver ignored it—Emily was already at the far door, staring at him, eyes wide with fear. His chest ached. What if this was goodbye? He lunged for her—but the midwife’s arm barred his path.
“You can’t go in!”
He loved her so intensely then. He wanted to say something—anything—but words failed him.
“I love you!” he blurted, forcing a smile.
Emily tried to return it but grimaced instead.
*God…* He didn’t know any prayers, and if he had, he’d forgotten them now.
He carried her things back to the car, drove home. Work? Impossible. He called his boss.
“Take the time. I’ve been there twice—thought I’d lose my mind. And then there’s the fear they’ll mix up the baby… Call me later,” his boss said before hanging up.
Oliver wandered the flat, picking things up, putting them down. In the bedroom, he buried his face in Emily’s pillow, inhaling her scent.
“Everything’s fine,” he muttered, placing it back.
*Should I call? Too soon?*
He paced, restless. Memories flickered—how they’d met at a friend’s birthday. No love at first sight. She’d seemed too aloof. Still, he’d asked her to dance—she was the only woman without a partner.
Years later, his friend admitted his wife had invited Emily deliberately.
He’d walked her home. Conversation stilted, but the lack of nervousness was new—no games, no pretence. Just quiet comfort. He’d liked that.
Called her the next day. No fuss—just *Where shall we meet?*
Somehow, without noticing, she became his other half. She was thirty-three; he, forty-one. Both carried scars from past heartbreaks.
When she said she was pregnant, he’d panicked. *A father?* Then joy—their baby would be perfect, like the chubby infants in the clinic brochures.
Now, back in the present, the flat suffocated him. He’d wait outside the hospital—she’d feel his presence, draw strength from it.
Parked outside, he watched a group emerge—a beaming father carrying a blue-ribboned bundle, a tired but smiling woman with flowers, relatives trailing.
Would that be him soon?
A man in an unzipped jacket stormed out, agitated. Oliver approached.
“Your wife in there?”
“Two days now. Is it always this long?”
“No idea. Mine went in three hours ago. How do we check?”
“Reception,” the man jerked his thumb.
Inside, cheerful baby posters adorned the walls. A stern woman behind glass scanned a ledger.
“Harrison, Emily—has she had the baby?”
The woman’s finger traced the page. A nurse approached, whispered. Both women stared at him.
“Are you Mr. Harrison?”
Dread coiled in his gut.
“Yes,” he croaked.
“Put these on. Come with me.”
“Where?”
He knew from films what this meant. The posters blurred. He followed numbly, legs leaden. *God, no. Not like this.* He remembered Emily—frightened, in that stretched dress—
“In here.” The nurse stopped at a door: *Head of Maternity.*
Oliver staggered in. A man his age handed him water. He gulped it like whisky.
“You’re Emily Harrison’s husband?”
Before he could answer, another man burst in—the same frantic one from outside.
“I’m Mr. Harrison!”
The doctor looked between them.
“You’re *both* married to Emily Harrison?”
Realisation struck—Oliver’s wife was Emily *Louise* Harrison.
“My wife is Emily Louise,” he said, exhaling.
But relief was brief—
“What about Emily? Is she—?”
“One moment.” The doctor made a call.
Oliver hovered, desperate.
“Emily Louise Harrison has delivered. A boy, seven pounds, nineteen inches. Both well. Go home—call later.”
The other man shoved forward.
“What about *my* Emily?”
A heavy sigh. “Sometimes… these things happen. You have a daughter—”
“No! It’s a mistake! Where is she?The other Harrison crumpled to the floor, sobbing, while Oliver stepped outside into the cold dawn, clutching his phone, his heart pounding with relief and a strange, guilty joy—his son was waiting, and life, relentless and unpredictable, would go on.
