When Fate Offers a Second Chance
*”Why are you back so early?”* Alex muttered, fumbling with his shirt—buttons on the wrong side. But Marina wasn’t listening. She stood frozen in the hallway, knuckles white, staring at the scarlet heels by the door. Not just any heels—*hers*. Emma’s. Her oldest friend. She’d recognise them anywhere, after all those late-night wine-fuelled chats, the photos, the laughter. But seeing them here, in her own flat? Never.
It had started that morning at work—a sudden wave of nausea, a darkness flickering at the edges of her vision. She brushed it off: stress, exhaustion. But then Lizzie from accounting leaned in, voice low. *”You pregnant or something?”*
*”Don’t be silly,”* Marina scoffed, though her stomach twisted. She *knew*. Twenty minutes later, locked in the office loo, she stared at the test. Two pink lines.
She barely remembered stumbling into her boss’s office, the blur of leaving, the Tube ride home. All she could think was *Alex—tell Alex, see his face light up, collapse into his arms, cry happy tears.* But then—
The key turned, the light flicked on, and there they were. Those *shoes*. A heartbeat later—whispers from the bedroom. Maybe a mistake. A cruel coincidence. She pushed the door open. There he was, half-dressed, tangled in sheets. And Emma, clutching the duvet to her chest.
*”Marina? What’s—?”* Alex stammered. Emma stared at the floor, silent.
Then—shouting, smashing things, tears. Then silence. Then emptiness. Marina sat on the shattered remains of their flat, hands pressed to her stomach, where something tiny and alive fluttered.
Days passed. A decision hardened. She couldn’t tie herself to Alex forever. Couldn’t face raising a child alone—parents too far, one fewer friend now. Her salary wouldn’t cover nappies, let alone a nanny. So she booked the clinic.
In the waiting room, she stared at the wall. Terrified. She didn’t want this baby. Except—she *did*.
*”Come in,”* called the doctor.
She stepped inside—and her heart stalled.
*”Thomas? Is that *you*?”*
Her first love. The boy she’d never forgotten. That soft, fleeting kiss at prom—still the gentlest memory she had.
*”Marina? Bloody hell!”* Thomas stood, pulling her into a hug, warm as old friends.
They talked for ten minutes, twenty years melting away. Then, gently, he asked:
*”But you’re here for a reason. What’s wrong?”*
She told him. The betrayal. The baby. The choice.
*”And you’re sure you want to… go through with it?”* Thomas murmured.
*”Yes. I’m scared. I can’t do this alone.”*
