Summer was just around the corner, and I could see the tension in Emmas shoulders. She never liked that time of year, not because of the heat, but because it meant I was away on the road for most of the weeks.
We’d been married for seven years, settled in a cosy terraced house on the outskirts of York, and we hardly ever argued. Emma was grateful Id taken her in, along with her little boy, Oliver, who was barely a year old when we first moved in together. Olivers biological father, Andrew, vanished the moment he heard about a friend’s pregnancy, stopped answering my calls and wouldnt even open the front door when I dropped by his workshop. One afternoon I went to his site just to look him in the eye. He shivered so badly that I couldn’t help but laugh. Dont worry, Andy, I said, Im not after anything from you its not your child.
He let out a relieved shout, turned to his mates and declared, You thought I was going to take on some strangers baby that wont happen!
Its not yours, its mine, Emma replied calmly. People like you never have a child of their own; every child looks foreign to you.
Andrew could only gasp for air, unable to answer, while the onlookers turned away with disdain. Emma left, vowing never to see that man again.
When Oliver was six months old, Emma asked her mother, who was retired on a disability pension, to look after the youngster while she returned to work. She’d been employed at a furniture shop before her maternity leave, and the owner was delighted to take her back reliable, pleasant staff are hard to find these days. Thats where she first met James Turner, the delivery driver who brought in the new stock from the factory.
Emma told James straight away about Oliver, and he didnt blink. He simply said, Lets get married then; youll have another boy, then a girl. I love children.
I was taken aback by his haste, but Emma, though not quite ready for another marriage, saw the appeal: James was a decent bloke, steady, and earned well driving his own lorry. With her mother often ill and unable to watch Oliver for long, Emma thought three months later shed be Mrs. Turner.
Surprisingly, married life suited her. James was hardworking, never gave cause for jealousy, and Emma made sure she gave him none she was a faithful wife. When she once asked if I was seeing anyone else, I laughed and said, If you ever start waddling around the house in that old, ragged dressing gown, then well have a chat. She promised herself shed never be that, and she kept it.
Those seven years rolled on. James bought a second lorry and was now crisscrossing the country, hauling everything from furniture to garden sheds. He earned a decent wage, but home evenings were few. Emma opened her own furniture store and kept busy to stave off loneliness. Oliver, now eight, grew into a polite, kind lad who loved sport and had a shelf of medals to prove it. He adored James, even though he knew the man wasnt his biological father, and he always tried to make him proud.
We never managed another pregnancy. Five years ago doctors told us we were simply incompatible. Emma took the news with a shrug she already had Oliver but she felt a heavy guilt toward me. She promised me another child, and I waited, hoping. When the truth settled in that we wouldnt have a shared baby, I fell into a grey spell, only to pull myself together a couple of years later, becoming more attentive to the shop, to Olivers achievements, and to Emmas jokes.
My parents lived about sixty miles away in a small village near Harrogate. Id often stay the night at their cottage, which made Emma a touch sour; shed mutter that I spent more time with my folks than with her. Yet she soothed herself, thinking my mum and dad were already well into their sixties, living in a rather old home that sometimes needed a sons help. She never argued about it, remembering the two bleak years when Id sunk into despondency. After all those years together, Emma wasnt just grateful; she loved me with her whole heart and could never picture us parting.
One May evening Emma felt a sudden unease. She couldnt pinpoint why perhaps the endless summer absences were wearing on her. She dialled my mobile, James, where are you? At your parents? Why does your voice sound so? Sorry if Im being a bother, love.
She stared at the dead screen, tears brimming. Id never spoken to her so sharply. She rushed around the house, then, unable to wait any longer, drove Oliver to his grannys and set off in her car for my parents village.
When she arrived, my lorry was nowhere in sight. She knocked on the cottage door; my motherinlaw, Margaret, opened it with a startled smile, ushered her in, and set a pot of tea on the table. Her husband, Harold, was asleep, so the house stayed quiet.
Just as Emma was about to explain her worry, a tiny, sleepy threeyearold girl shuffled out of the sitting room, rubbing her eyes and whimpering for her mum. Margaret swooped in, cradled the child, and sang a simple lullaby.
Emma stared, bewildered. Where did this little one come from? she asked.
Margaret answered quickly, Shes the daughter of our cousin Lucy. Lucy passed away a few days ago. She had no one else, so we took baby Kate in.
Will you keep her? Emma asked, voice soft. Shes still a baby. Wheres her father?
Before Margaret could answer, Harold emerged, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He saw Emma, paused, and I caught a glimpse of him from the doorway. Emma bent down, kissed his cheek and said, Sorry to wake you, little one. Kates been crying. Shes such a pretty thing, and Im sorry for her mother. Itll be a heavy lift for you both, given your age.
Harold gave a vague nod, and Margaret, after a moments hesitation, agreed to let Emma stay the night in the spare room with Kate. Emma spent the whole night watching the child, gently stroking her light hair, already forming the words shed tell us in the morning.
In the early dawn she awoke to find me standing by the bed, my eyes darting between her and the sleeping infant. My voice trembled, James, can we take her in? Please, Ill raise her as my own.
I turned away, fled the room, and met me under the old birch tree in the garden, tears glistening. Im sorry, I whispered, sitting on the bench, Im sorry.
Emma sat beside me, Why? You dont want to take her?
I know you wanted a child. It didnt happen for us, so you think fates against us, she replied. She looks a bit like you, James. Shell be ours, I promise.
I clenched my teeth, She looks like me because shes my daughter. I shouted, Im sorry. I love you, truly. It was a mistake, a foolish one night. Lucy lived with her old aunt in the next hamlet. I went to a friends birthday there and got tangled up. Later Lucy said she was pregnant and insisted Id be the father. I told her Id help, but I never meant to leave you. I paused, swallowing. My parents knew about Lucy, judged me, but whats done is done. Lucy didnt die; she brought Kate here two days ago, with papers saying shed relinquish the child to me. Shes marrying a foreigner and didnt want the baby with her. I was at a loss, feared my ageing parents reaction. Kate could stay with me only if youd agree to adopt.
Emma was stunned, silent. She rose, slipped into the spare room, and sat beside the sleeping Kate. She wanted to hate the child, to see my flaws reflected in her tiny face, but all she saw was a mirror of me, my own beloved. She pressed her palms to her cheeks, tears streaming, but didnt wipe them away, as if hoping they would wash away the hurt.
Kates bright blue eyes opened, a shy smile forming. Dont worry, I wont be messy. Let me do your hair, she whispered.
Emmas sobs softened. She imagined Kate in a bleak childrens home, crying unheard, then gently embraced the girl. Alright, Ill braid your hair. I dont know how yet, but Ill learn.
A few weeks later the court granted us full custody of Kate. Oliver was over the moon, declaring hed protect his new little sister as the big brother. I gave up longhaul routes, and together Emma and I ran our two furniture stores.
I never fully erased the sting of my past mistake, but I forgave myself and Emma never held it against me; she saw how deeply I regretted my actions.
On a chilly December morning, Emma, Kate, and I came home from the schools Christmas show. Kate beamed, clutching a massive box of sweets Santa had left under the tree. She ran to me, hugged me tight, and whispered, Dad, what did I ask Santa for? Another brother or a sister.
I looked at Emma, eyes wide, Little one, Santa cant grant that, love. Ask for something else.
Emma smiled mischiously, Why not? Can we deny a sweet girl her wish?
I froze, watching Emmas grin, and when Oliver burst in from his training, he saw me twirling Emma around the living room, both laughing, while Kate, chocolatesmudged, plopped on the sofa. Oliver plucked a sweet from her hand and said, Weve got the best parents, havent we, sis?
