“Hello, Sir – Your Wife Has Just Given Birth to Twins! – But… I’m 52 Years Old… and I Don’t Have a Wife! – Well, I Don’t Know… You’d Better Come Have a Look, She Swears They’re Yours…”

Hello? Your wife has just given birth to twins!
But Im 52 years old and I dont have a wife!
Well, I dont know You should come and have a look, she says theyre yours

As I heard these words through the phone, it struck me as some kind of mistake, surely a wrong number. Fifty-twobabies at my age? What on earth were they talking about? Still, curiosity got the better of me. I climbed into my old Vauxhall and headed out beneath a sky that seemed painted with streaks of marmalade.

When I arrived, the hospital ward was filled with the humming of invisible bees. There, lying amongst crumpled sheets, was my former wife, Margaret. On either side of her like drowsy kittens, slept two newborn bundles shimmering with an unnamable brightness.

Margaret, whose babies are those? Are they really yours?
She looked at me with a curious calm.
Theyre yours, Simon, she replied, her voice echoing as if we were underwater.

I fell silent, the logic of her words sifting like sand through my hands.

But youre 49 and we divorced ages ago.

Yes, seven months now. But I didnt know I was pregnant then, she said, tracing faint patterns on her blanket.

How is that even possible?

Id thought it was the menopause. Never wouldve guessed that our passionate farewell would end up like this. But Im not asking anything of you. I just felt you had to know.

Both at once… After all those years of trying, nothing ever happened.

To be honest, I was completely gobsmacked myself. I had no clue until the fifth monththought I was losing my marbles from all the strange feelings inside

Truthfully, I wasnt that shocked. Margaret had always been a rather plump woman, soft and jollya fact that people rarely mentioned aloud, but always noticed. No one in our circles had the faintest inkling about her change.

From the day we met, she was round as a doughnutand I liked that. Slim girls had never captured my attention. Life together had been good, but we longed for children. Margaret tried every remedy under the sun, fretted constantly, but with no luck.

Eventually, we chose to live for ourselves instead. We worked hard, but played harderseaside holidays in Brighton, rambles up Lake District hills, weekends in art galleries, visits to London and the old cathedrals. Yet something changed in our last five years together, some subtle thread broke. Maybe we gave up hoping for children altogether. With age, the silent knowledge grows: someday, no one may stand by your gravestone.

Our arguments grew sharp. Margaret put on another two stone and, one rainy morning, she announced, Were just hurting each other. Maybe we ought to part ways. Perhaps you could still be a father yet.

In truth, I never wanted to leave. But Margaret was resolute. It was excruciating. Still, I went.

Only later did she confess shed kept quiet about the pregnancy out of fearfear she wouldnt manage, fear the children wouldnt be healthy. And here we were, with a scene stranger than any bedtime story.

That afternoon, lost somewhere between dream and waking, I popped into the local jewellers and picked up a ring, then wandered to the florist for a colossal bouquet. Back in the ward, I dropped to one knee between the whirring machines and proposed.

Now, two years since, were together. The twins are thriving. Were older, but happiness doesnt check passports or birth certificatesyouth flickers on the inside.

Would you dare start again at this age? Or do you reckon happiness comes with an expiry date?