I recall the bewildering phone call as if it were yesterday. “I’ve no idea what’s happened, but you’re named as the father; come collect the twins!” Three years after separating from my wife, I’d abruptly become father to newborn boys. My own fault, really – should’ve finalized the divorce properly. Though in the end, it turned out to be a blessing.
Olivia and I had been married ten years in Manchester, raising our daughters Emily and Juliet, born scarcely a year apart. Life seemed ordinary enough: work by day, family evenings. Yet Olivia began lingering elsewhere increasingly – tea with a friend, queues at the shops, work emergencies. Eventually, well-wishers whispered about her lover. Naturally, I confronted her. Olivia defended fiercely – the best defence being attack, as they say. She felt neglected, claimed domestic drudgery consumed her womanhood, insisted the girls preferred me. After heated words, she declared she’d join her lover, truly leaving Juliet and Emily in my care.
The girls were distraught at first, but adapted. When my firm offered me a London branch directorship, I accepted. We relocated hastily, the divorce paperwork forgotten in the rush. At my new post, I met Amelia – my age, also raising two daughters alone: Beatrice and Charlotte. Soon we shared a home, blending families. Our four lasses, near the same age, filled evenings with joyful chaos or fierce squabbles over dolls – a proper madhouse! Amelia and I delighted in them yet privately hoped for a son, but nature wasn’t obliging.
By that strange telephone call, we’d lived together two years and resigned ourselves to raising girls. The caller’s number showed our old hometown’s exchange: “Nicholas Parker?” “Speaking.” “I’m afraid I’ve grim news… Your wife Olivia Parker never regained consciousness and passed today. Collect the children tomorrow. We’ll discuss arrangements then.” “A cruel joke? Olivia and I parted years ago; my daughters are here with me.” “I’ve no idea what’s happened, but you’re named as the father; come collect the twins!” The line went dead. Dumbfounded, I confirmed it was indeed our old hospital. Amelia, hearing everything, gazed at me wide-eyed. We hurriedly left the girls with her parents and travelled north.
Outside the hospital, we encountered Olivia’s friend Eleanor. Through tears, she explained Olivia’s lover abandoned her upon learning of the pregnancy. Carrying twins proved arduous, culminating in severe complications. The babies were saved, but Olivia fell into a coma and never woke. When registering the infants, staff used outdated registry records where I remained her lawful husband – thus listing me as father.
Eleanor left after pledging help. Amelia crushed my hand, trembling. “Amelia? What is it?” “Nick… we’ll take them, won’t we?” Her suppressed smile radiated hope. “The twins?” “Yes! What if ours never come? And here are two readymade–” “Darling, they aren’t playthings!” “I’m utterly serious! Think how thrilled our girls will be! Yours share blood with them…” Well, resistance proved futile. We brought the boys home, laid Olivia to rest properly. Our daughters shrieked delightedly over their “instant brothers”, utterly mystified at how “Auntie Amelia hid her bump so well!”
