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Vitaly Settles in with Coffee and His Laptop to Finish Work—Until an Unexpected Call from the Maternity Ward Changes Everything: A Stranger’s Baby, a Past Affair in Brighton, and the Decision That Will Change His Life Forever
Edward settled himself at his mahogany desk, laptop open and a steaming mug of tea beside him. He had a few pressing matters to wrap up before the evening. Out of nowhere, his concentration was shattered by the piercing ring of his mobile. The number flashing on the screen was unfamiliar.
Hello, Edward speaking.
Edward Harris? This is the maternity ward. Do you know a Miss Emily Bennett? The callers accent and tone betrayed his agean older gentleman, by the sound of it.
Edward blinked in confusion. Im sorry, no. I dont know any Emily Bennett. What is this about?
Its about Emily. Shepassed away yesterday in childbirth. We were able to reach her mother. She told us youre the father, came the deliberate, weighted reply.
What? The father? Whose father? I dont understand, Edward stammered, a chill running down his spine.
Emily delivered a baby girl. Yesterday. If you really are Edward Harris, you are the father. We need you at St Georges Maternity tomorrow. There are decisions to be made… The voice on the other end was slow, precise.
Decisions? What sort of decisions? Edwards mind raced.
Just come tomorrow. Ask for Dr Nicholas Carter. Thats me. Well talk it through.
The line went dead. Edward lowered the phone, staring at it as if it might reveal more.
Emily… Who on earth is Emily? he muttered, pacing his sitting room. No. Wait. How long is a pregnancy again? Nine months He grabbed at the thread of memory, pulling it taut. Its May now. So nine months backLast September. What happened in September?
His gaze fell to his tea, then pulled away in revulsion. Something far stronger felt necessary just now, but
September… I was in Brighton, the answer clicked into place, the memory as sharp as a photograph. Two weeks holiday. There it is. Emily!
He could only conjure a vague impression of her faceblonde, blue-eyed, cheerful. Emily. But how many Emilys had there been over the years? Was he expected to remember every brief encounter? Forty years old, never married, never wanted children. Edwards life was just as he liked it, neat and self-contained. He had no intention of disrupting it for some Emily.
But she died, a small voice hammered at his mind.
How could she have died? he said aloud, eyes to the ceiling as if the answer lay among the cobwebs. She must have been barely twenty.
A strange ache twisted beneath his ribswas it regret, sorrow, or mere confusion? It was easier to reach for a cigarette, but hed quit. He could almost feel the lost, unnameable emotion.
A child He said it as if to someone else in the room. Emilys mother can take her. Shes the grandmother, after all. Andwho knows? The child might not even be mine.
Decision made. He would visit the hospital, sign whatever papers were required to absolve himself of responsibility, and continue as before. Yet sleep wouldn’t come. Restlessness gnawed at him, haunting him with relentless questions and the occasional sharp pang of guilt.
That cold, lifeless body couldnt be hers, could it? Edward tried to swallow the lump clawing at his throat, but failed. It grew, invading his chest, stinging his eyes. He remembered her nowher laughter, her sprint down the shingle beach, the way shed gazed at him, all affection and summer sun. Silly thing, forgotten as soon as hed returned to London. Now she was gone, a name on a mortuary report.
In the maternity ward corridor, Edward waved to Dr Carter for a moment of privacy, then stumbled outside to bum a cigarette from a stranger. He inhaled deeply, flicked the butt away, and squared his shoulders for his meeting with the head physician.
Would you like to see your daughter? Dr Carter asked, his kindly eyes steady.
No. Id like to speak to Emilys mother first. Is she here? Edward inquired, searching the doctors face.
Shes waiting just along the hallway. You walked right past her.
Ill go now, Edward said, hurrying out.
He spotted a thin woman, swathed in a black scarf, seated beneath a faded painting of cherubs. He covered the distance between them in a few brisk strides.
Good afternoon, Edward managed, voice tight.
The woman lifted her gaze, and Edward was startled by the naked anguish swimming in her blue eyes.
She looks just like Emilyone and the same, he thought.
My name is Margaret. Margaret Bennett, she said softly. Im Emilys mother.
Im Edward. Edward Harris, he responded, oddly formal.
I know. Emily spoke of you. Margarets control wavered, and tears spilled silently down her cheeks. Shell never tell me anything else, now.
Edward was lost. He stood beside her, blankly, no idea what to say or do.
Margaret dabbed at her tears and declared, Pleasedont turn your back on your daughter! I cant bear for her to end up in a childrens home. Do you understand?
A childrens home? But youre her grandmothertheyll let you take her! Edward insisted, though privately he wondered, She barely looks older than me
They wont. Im not wella heart condition. All you have to do is acknowledge her, just that, and Ill raise her myself. We wont trouble you, I promise! Margarets hands reached out, trembling in supplication.
Come on, Edward muttered, gently drawing her toward the head doctors office.
Papers shuffled as Dr Carter looked up. What do we need to confirm paternity? Edward asked, nervously twirling his ring.
A DNA test, replied Dr Carter, his gaze steady. And have you thought of a name?
For whom?
Your daughterwhat shall we call her? The doctor half-smiled.
Edward hesitated. Idont want to see her. Not just now.
Somehow, the forms and formalities passed in a blur. The DNA test was positive: the baby was his. Edward wandered through his days, adrift, unprepared for parenthood, uncertain what to do. But he couldnt just leave Margaret to cope alone. Ill help out where I can, he decided, send money, buy a pram and whatever else is needed. That should be enough.
Discharge day arrived. Edwards mouth went dry when he saw the nurse bearing a bundle wrapped in shockingly pink lace and ribbons. Margaret took the baby in her arms, then peeled back the lacy edge.
Would you like to see her? she asked.
Edward didnt answerbefore he could, Dr Carter beckoned Margaret into his office.
With a hesitant motion, the bundle passed into Edwards arms. He was rooted to the spot. The warmth, the sweet, milky scentthen a tiny, plaintive wail broke out, catlike, insistent. Edward looked down and saw himselfhis own image, miniaturised and impossibly fragile.
The world tilted. He slumped to a chair, rocking the little girl until she quieted. Her eyes seemed to search his, and for a moment, he could have sworn she smiled at him.
Margaret emerged after a minute, hands outstretched.
Ill take her, she offered.
Edward shook his head, grinning the happiest grin of his entire life. NoIll hold her. She just smiled at me! His voice was awed, tender, as he turned to Margaret. Lets go home, Margaret. All of us. Together.They stepped out into pale spring sunlight, the three of themEdward with the baby held tenderly against his chest, Margaret by his side, all held together by invisible threads of grief and trembling hope. The city seemed to hush as they walked, the London traffic softening beneath the weight of that tiny, sleeping bundle. For the first time in years, Edward felt the future opening before him: unknown, unplanned, but not unwelcome.
A breeze ruffled the lace at the babys crown. Edward looked down and whispered, Well call you Hope. Margaret squeezed his arm in grateful astonishment.
At the curb, he paused, heart thundering. Well figure it out, wont we? he asked, uncertain if he spoke to Margaret, the child, or some new, better self emerging inside him.
Margaret nodded, tears shining on her cheeksbut this time, a glint of joy shimmered alongside the sorrow.
The baby stirred, a fist unfurling toward his chin. Edward pressed his lips to her forehead. The world was still unsteady, full of questions and the ache of loss. Yet somehow, as the sun warmed his back and the soft weight of his daughter filled his arms, Edward realized he was exactly where he needed to be.
He smiledtruly smiledfor the first time in years. And together, they turned away from the hospital and toward a future that, for all its uncertainty, finally felt like home.
Mother-in-Law Anna Peters was sitting in her kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmering on the stove. She had forgotten to stir it three times already, each time remembering too late: the milk would froth, spill over, and she would clean the stove irritably with a cloth. In those moments she felt it keenly: it wasn’t really about the milk. Ever since her second grandchild was born, everything in the family seemed to derail. Her daughter grew tired, thinner, and quieter. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, sometimes heading straight to the bedroom. Anna saw this and thought: how can you just leave a woman to cope alone? She spoke up. At first gently, then more sharply. First to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. And then she noticed something strange: after she spoke, the house didn’t feel lighter, but heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, he grew gloomier, and Anna returned home with a sinking feeling that once again, she hadn’t done things right. That day she went to see their vicar, not for advice, but because there was nowhere else to go with this feeling. “I suppose I’m just not a good person,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “I always do things wrong.” The vicar was sitting at his desk, writing. He set his pen aside. “Why do you think that?” Anna shrugged. “I tried to help. Instead, I only seem to make everyone angry.” He looked at her attentively, but without judgment. “You’re not a bad person. You’re just exhausted. And very anxious.” She sighed. That rang true. “I’m so worried for my daughter,” she said. “She’s so different since the baby. And him…” She waved a hand. “It’s like he doesn’t even notice.” “Do you notice what he does?” the vicar asked. Anna thought for a moment. She remembered how, last week, he washed the dishes late at night when he thought no one saw. How on Sunday he took the pram out for a walk, even though he looked as if he’d rather collapse into bed. “He does help… I suppose,” she replied doubtfully. “But not the way he should.” “And what way is that?” the vicar asked gently. Anna wanted to reply at once, but realised she didn’t know. She could only think: more, better, more attentively. But what, exactly, was hard to explain. “I just want things to be easier for her,” she said. “Then say that,” the vicar replied quietly. “Not to him, but to yourself.” She looked at him. “What do you mean?” “I mean you’re not fighting for your daughter — you’re fighting her husband. And fighting means being tense. That exhausts everyone: you, and them.” Anna was silent for a long while. Then she asked, “So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?” “No,” he replied. “Just do what helps. Not words, but actions. And not against someone, but for someone.” On her way home, she thought over his words. Remembered how, when her daughter was a little girl, she would just sit beside her quietly if she cried — never lecturing. Why was it different now? The next day, she arrived unannounced. She brought soup. Her daughter was surprised; her son-in-law embarrassed. “I won’t stay long,” Anna said. “Just wanted to help.” She watched the children while her daughter slept. Left quietly, without a word about how hard things were, or what they ought to do. The next week, she came again. And again, the week after. She still noticed that her son-in-law was far from perfect. But she began to see other things: the way he gently picked up the baby, how at night he tucked a blanket around her daughter when he thought no one was looking. One day, in the kitchen, she couldn’t help herself and asked him, “Is it hard for you right now?” He looked startled, as if no one had ever asked before. “It’s hard,” he answered, after a pause. “Very.” And nothing more. But something sharp in the air between them was gone. Anna realised she’d been waiting for him to change. But it needed to start with her. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she didn’t say “I told you so.” She just listened. Sometimes she took the children to give her daughter a break. Sometimes she called her son-in-law to ask how things were. It wasn’t easy. It was much easier to stay angry. But gradually, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect — just quieter. Free of endless tension. One day her daughter said, “Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.” Anna thought about those words for a long time. She understood something simple: reconciliation doesn’t come from someone admitting they’re wrong. It comes when someone is willing to stop fighting first. She still wanted her son-in-law to be more attentive. That wish hadn’t gone away. But alongside it lived something more important: for her family to have peace. And every time the old feeling — frustration, resentment, the urge to criticise — rose up, she asked herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want to make things easier for them? Almost always, the answer showed her what to do next.
Mother-in-Law Margaret Williams sat in the kitchen, her eyes resting on the saucepan of milk gently simmering on the hob....
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Vitaly Settles in with Coffee and His Laptop to Finish Work—Until an Unexpected Call from the Maternity Ward Changes Everything: A Stranger’s Baby, a Past Affair in Brighton, and the Decision That Will Change His Life Forever
Edward settled himself at his mahogany desk, laptop open and a steaming mug of tea beside him. He had a...
Igor Never Came Back from Holiday: “Why hasn’t your husband written or called?” “No word, Vera—not after nine days, not after forty,” Lyuda would joke, adjusting her work apron over her broad waist. “So he’s gone off the rails, or worse, then,” her neighbour nodded sympathetically. “Well, wait and see. Have the police said anything?” “Everyone’s silent, Vera—quiet as fish in that sea of his.” “Life, eh… fate.” That conversation weighed heavy on Lyudmila as she swept the autumn leaves from her doorstep in the dreary fall of 1988. Three years into her well-earned retirement, she’d had to take up work as a council cleaner to make ends meet. Life had always been simple—she and her husband, both dutiful workers, had raised a son, no scandal, no sorrow. Then Igor went on a seaside holiday and never returned. She’d phoned every hospital, every police station, even the morgue. Her son, stationed with the military, helped with inquiries—it was discovered Igor checked out of his hotel but never boarded the train home. Lyudmila wanted to go search for her husband, but her son insisted he’d handle it. Weeks passed, and she kept herself busy to stifle her fears. Then, as suddenly as he’d vanished, Igor reappeared—no suitcase, just the same navy suit and a weary silence. As she fussed to feed him and her son, the truth unravelled: Igor had been living with another woman by the sea, seeking “freedom.” The shock, the ache of betrayal—Lyudmila couldn’t bear it. Igor, shamed and lost, tried to return weeks later, but Lyudmila stood firm. It wasn’t just heartbreak—it was the pain of not knowing, of years shared and suddenly made strange. She swept her pathway, watching leaves collect and blow away, knowing sometimes those who hurt us most have already gone with the wind. (Original Title Adapted for English Culture: Igor Never Came Back from Holiday: The Disappearance, the Heartbreak, and the Road Swept Clean)
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