Dear Diary,
Ive loved Olivia since we were kids in primary school, and we always whispered about a future wedding. My mother, Margaret Whitfield, runs the maternity ward at St.Marys Hospital, and she has never approved of my choice. Shes always favoured Claire, a nurse from a long line of doctors, and shes convinced that I should marry her instead. Claire is popular with both staff and patients, and Margaret often talks about her as the perfect match.
After finishing my Alevels, I enrolled at the University of Manchester for medicine, while Olivia entered a degree in modern languages, hoping to become an English translator like her mother and grandmother. Our classmates decided to celebrate our graduation by escaping to my familys country cottage in the Cotswolds. We lingered there for almost a month, reluctant to return to city life, but lectures were due to start again.
In October, Olivia confessed to me one chilly evening:
Philip, Im pregnant. How will you react?
Of course Ill whisk you off to the registry office, I replied, trying to smile.
Im not exactly light, and Im carrying a lot, she said, halflaughing.
Im no athlete; I used to wrestle at school. Youre as light as a feather to me, I joked, hoping to ease her nerves.
What about our studies? she asked, worry evident.
Well need a years break after the baby arrives, I said. Ill switch to distance learning, like my mum did. She had me at nineteen and managed everything. After the wedding, Ill move in with you and keep my own distance from my mothershell never accept me, thats for sure.
She sighed, Only for your peace of mind, Phil.
We filed our marriage notice at the local registry office and then went our separate ways. Olivias flat was full of guests when a family friend arrived with his wife and their son, Andrew, a sixteenyearold whos taller than his age suggests.
Back home, I told my parents about the engagement. Margaret frowned, and that evening she marched to Olivias parents house, determined to create a scene. She rang the doorbell repeatedly, but no one answered. Inside, a record player was humming a tune that matched the bells chime, and everyone was distracted. Andrew was taking a shower; the sudden ring startled him, and he wrapped a towel round his hips to answer.
Margaret, bewildered, realized she still had her mobile. She hit record and began filming the hallway, the camera capturing Andrew in his towel.
Are you here to see Mrs. Thompson? he asked, not understanding why she was filming.
No longer, Margaret muttered, hurrying down the stairs.
Later she showed me the clip, emphasizing how long it took Andrew to open the door.
Do you recognise that hallway? Still no idea who Olivias babys father is, she said.
I replied, I get it, Mum. You were right. Shes not the one for me.
I sent Olivia an angry text, then shut my phone off completely. She tried calling, but I ignored her, even when she turned up at my flat well past midnight.
From the window, Margaret watched Olivia approach, expecting me to appear. When she saw her, she rushed to the front door, flung it open, and blocked Olivia from entering, stepping back onto the landing.
What do you want from Philip? Hes already asleep. And you, playing both sides? Keep seeing other mentwofaced, she snapped, then slammed the door on herself and retreated to her flat.
Olivia stood on the stair, tears streaming, and finally went home. In the kitchen, my mother, Anne Whitfield, was washing dishes. Olivia collapsed into her arms.
Liv, whats wrong? The wedding is near; you should be happy, Anne asked gently.
Mother, its over now. Im carrying his child, and his mother has been stirring trouble ever since we applied for marriage, Olivia sobbed, showing me a message from the groom accusing her of infidelity.
If Philip behaves like that, hell always bow to his mother. God has taken him away from you. Well raise the child ourselves, Anne tried to console her.
After that fallout, Olivias pregnancy was hard. She was rushed to the maternity ward while her parents were at work. The doctors had to deliver the baby under anaestheticthe only safe option. Later, a nurse whispered that the child had been stillborn.
The paperwork handed us the tiny, lifeless body, and we buried him in the garden. Olivia, still in the ward, missed the funeral.
Not long after, my parents sold their flat and moved away.
Its for the best, love. Youve had enough drama with Philip, and he just walks by with that arrogant grin, my mother said.
I hope I can forget him sooner, I replied.
Eight years slipped by. I now work as a translator for a modest firm in Birmingham. One morning, Philip walked into my office.
Why are you here now? Ive tried to forget you, I told him, stiff.
Im sorry, Liv. Tragedy brought me to you, he said.
You have a nice mum. Talk to her about your problems. I have no time for you. Please leave, I snapped, turning back to my screen.
He pleaded, Please listen, Liv. It matters to you too. Ill wait at the café across the street after work.
Fine, Ill come out of curiosity, I said, barely looking at him.
That evening we met outside the café.
Im sorry, Liv, but my son is ill and needs a donor, he said.
Youve got the wrong address. My mother has more resources here, I retorted.
Weve been waiting, and no donor is available. I even put my flat up for sale. Youre a motheryou might help our son, he implored.
This is a joke, Philip? Our baby was stillborn. My parents buried him, I replied, anger flaring.
Hes alive now, eight years old.
How? I demanded.
Remember the day we filed our marriage notice? he asked.
Ill never forget your nasty message, I muttered.
Philip recounted the story his mother had told him about seeing a woman in a hallway. I explained who Andrew was, and his face went white. He still loved me, though hed never married. I remained single, fearing another pregnancy would break my heart again.
Phil, tell me about our son. What did your mother do? I asked.
When you were in the maternity ward, my mother saw you being wheeled to the operating theatre. She guessed I was the father, tested it, and confirmed it, yet she refused to give me the child. Im to blame for agreeing to that. My grudge against you haunts me. Apparently God punished us; our son, Simon, is ill.
Lets take him to the clinic. Test for compatibility. If Im not a match, he must share my blood type, Philip said.
Yes, Im type O, youre type B, I replied, my hands trembling.
At the hospital, I saw Simon in a pale ward. He looked up, eyes wide.
Simon, weve finally found your mother. Weve been lost, but people have helped us meet, Philip whispered, his voice breaking.
Mother, Ive been waiting for you. I imagined you just like this, even though we never had a photo of you, Simon said, clutching my hand.
Sweetheart, everything will be alright. Im here, and Ill do anything to make you healthy, I cried, holding him close.
The doctors confirmed I was a match, and Simons condition improved. Philip sold his flat, paid off the clinics fees, and we now live together in a modest apartment above my parents house.
Liv, forgive me. We need to marry, and you should have another child. Our sons doctor said siblings are better donors than parents, Philip said earnestly.
Ive read about that, Phil. For the sake of our children, Im ready for anything, I answered.
We finally married, and besides Simon, we now raise two more childrena boy and a girlwho fill our home with the laughter we were denied for so long.
Life has come full circle, dear diary, and I finally feel the peace I once thought impossible.
