**Another Smith…**
Oliver felt Emily’s fingers brush against his arm.
“What?” He opened his eyes. “Is it time?”
She gave him a mysterious smile and glanced at the bed beside him.
Oliver turned his head and saw a bundle. He reached out, but the blanket gave way under his hand. The bundle was empty…
“Oliver!” Emily’s anxious voice called from somewhere far away.
He blinked awake and saw her tense face, as if she were listening for something. He shook his head, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream.
“What? Is it time? We still have two weeks—”
“I don’t know, my stomach hurts,” Emily murmured.
“Right.” Oliver propped himself up on his elbows. “We need to call an ambulance.” He glanced at the bed beside him. No bundle—just emptiness. He exhaled in relief, pushing the dream away.
“Let’s wait. I’m not sure it’s contractions. Just cramping. They said we should 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 fumbled for his jeans slung over the chair. The phone slipped from his pocket, landing with a muffled thud on the soft rug.
Fully awake now, he grabbed the phone, pulled on his jeans, and turned just as Emily groaned, clutching her stomach.
“Was that a contraction?” He scrambled to her side and started massaging her lower back with his fists—just like they’d learned in antenatal class.
“Breathe deep,” he said, inhaling sharply through his nose and exhaling through his mouth.
Emily mimicked him.
“It’s over,” she said, forcing a weak smile.
“I’m calling the ambulance.” He jumped up. “No—get dressed. I’ll drive you to the hospital. Faster that way.”
The bag had been packed for weeks, waiting in the corner.
“Documents are in the nightstand,” Emily said, pulling her loose maternity dress over her head.
Oliver grabbed the folder and spotted Emily’s phone charger at the bottom. He stuffed it in the bag.
“Where’s your passport?”
“In the cabinet,” came Emily’s muffled reply.
He dashed to the other room, cursing under his breath—why hadn’t she kept everything together? “Right, her phone—”
“Where’s your phone?” he yelled.
“Here, on the nightstand,” she said calmly.
“Emily, I *told* you to keep everything in one place. Like a child,” he muttered, storming back in. “Hairbrush, toothbrush—”
She gave him a guilty smile, but it twisted into a grimace as another wave of pain hit.
“Hang on.” He dropped the bag and went back to massaging.
Irritation bubbled up inside him. He checked the clock—half five in the morning.
Emily relaxed, the pain ebbing—but only for a minute before returning.
Oliver yanked on a jumper, grabbed the bag.
“Let’s go. Maybe we’ll make it downstairs before the next one.”
Emily waddled to the hallway, hands bracing her swollen belly. Oliver helped her into her wide, flat boots—her usual stylish shoes long abandoned, her feet too swollen. He bundled her coat over her shoulders, pulled up the hood, then shoved his own feet into shoes—no time for socks.
“Ready?” He helped her up from the low bench, and they stepped out into the cold.
The city was just waking up. Lights flickered on in windows. Fresh snow blanketed the ground, slowing their exit from the driveway.
*Why don’t people plan babies for summer? No snow, no ice. Next time…* His thoughts were cut short by Emily’s groan.
The roads were quiet. Oliver pressed the accelerator.
“Em, hold on. Not much longer. Breathe.”
Every time she tensed, his own muscles clenched in sympathy—but it wasn’t the same. He couldn’t take her pain away.
Finally—the hospital. Oliver helped her out, guiding her up the ramp to the doors marked *Maternity Admissions*. The hallway was empty.
“Hello? Anyone? We’re having a baby!” His voice echoed.
A midwife in scrubs appeared.
“Calm down, Dad. How far apart are the contractions?”
“They got closer on the way here,” Oliver answered for Emily.
“Slippers?” she asked briskly. “Help her change. Take her coat and shoes. Documents?”
Oliver scrambled to obey, moving fast but feeling sluggish, like he was watching himself. Emily bit her lip, breathing hard.
“Go home. Write down this number—call for updates.” The midwife pointed to a sheet taped to the wall.
Oliver glanced at the number, then at Emily, already at the opposite door. She looked lost, fear swimming in her eyes. His stomach twisted. The thought of never seeing her again made him nauseous. He lunged forward—but the midwife blocked him.
“You can’t go in there!”
God, he loved her. He needed to say something, *anything*, but words failed him.
“I love you!” he called, forcing a smile.
Emily tried to smile back, but another contraction twisted her face.
*Christ…* He’d never prayed, didn’t even know how, but he wished he did.
Back in the car, he drove home. By the time he arrived, it was nearly work hours. *Work?* He rang his boss.
“Took Emily to hospital. Can’t think straight.”
“Right. Been there twice—thought I’d lose my mind both times. Then panicked they’d mix up the babies.” His boss chuckled. “Call me when there’s news.”
Oliver paced the flat, picking things up, putting them down. In the bedroom, he grabbed Emily’s pillow, buried his face in it, inhaling her scent.
“It’ll be fine,” he muttered, setting it back. “Should I call now?”
Restless, he wandered, 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.
Months later, his friend admitted his wife had invited Emily *for him*.
He’d walked her home. Conversation stalled, but he liked the quiet comfort of her presence. No games, no drama. A week later, he called. No hesitation—just, *Where should we meet?*
By thirty-three (her) and forty-one (him), past relationships had left scars. When she said she was pregnant, fear struck first—*A father?* Then joy. A chubby, perfect baby, like the ones on clinic posters.
Back to reality. He couldn’t stand waiting. He’d go back, stand under the windows. Maybe she’d feel him there.
From his car, he watched a group exit the hospital. A beaming father carried a blue-ribboned bundle. A woman followed, tired but smiling, flowers in hand. Relatives trailed behind.
*Will that be me in a few days?* The family dispersed into cars.
Another man burst out, coat flapping, frantic. Oliver approached.
“Wife in labour?”
“Yeah, two days now. Is it always this long?”
“Dunno. Mine’s been in three hours. How do we check?”
The man jerked a thumb behind him.
Inside, posters of smiling babies adorned the walls. Oliver approached the receptionist.
“Emily Smith—any news?”
The woman scanned a ledger, then a nurse whispered to her. They both stared at him.
“You’re Mr. Smith?” the nurse asked.
Dread punched through him.
“Yeah,” he rasped.
“Shoe covers, please. Leave your coat.”
“Where are we going?”
From films, he knew. The posters blurred. His legs wobbled. *God, no. Not like this.* He remembered Emily’s frightened face.
“In here.” The nurse stopped at a door labelled *Consultant*.
Oliver staggered in, collapsing onto a chair.
The consultant, a man his age, handed him water. He gulped it like whiskey.
“You’re Mr. Smith?”
“Is she—”
“*I’m* Mr. Smith!” A panting man—the frantic one from outside—burst in.
The consultant looked between them. The other man gaped at Oliver.
“You’re *both* husbands of Emily Smith?”
Oliver’s wife was *Emily Grace* Smith.
“Repeat the name,” he demanded.
The consultant did.
“Not my wife.” Oliver exhaled. “Mine’s Emily Grace Smith.” He grinned stupidly—then panic resurged. “What about *my* Emily?”
The consultant made a call. Oliver hovered, hanging on every word.
“Emily Grace Smith is in delivery. Wait downstairs—or go home. She’s fine.”
Oliver left, passing the other Mr. Smith, whose hollow stare followed him.
In the lobby, the other man crumpled onto a chair, rocking.
“What happened?”The other Mr. Smith whispered, “She’s gone,” and Oliver could only grip his own car keys tighter, whispering thanks to the universe as he walked away, knowing his Emily was safe—while another man’s world had just shattered.
