22October2025
It feels strange to write these thoughts down, as if putting ink to paper could somehow untangle the knot of emotions that have been tightening around me for months. Two weeks after we buried Olivia, Williammy husband of three yearssat across the kitchen table, his face set like stone, and said, I think Lucy should stay with us. The little girl had been living with us ever since Olivias sudden departure; we had taken her in under a temporary guardianship arrangement that was supposed to end in a month. Williams tone was firm, almost harsh, and it sparked something in me I hadnt expected.
Is it because shes yours, William? I snapped, the words spilling out louder than I intended. Admit it! Im tired of pretending everything is fine.
He looked taken aback. What are you trying to put up with, Emily? Are you listening to Sophie again? He tried to joke, but the edge in his voice made me feel as though every joke was a barb.
SophieSophie Clarkehad been a part of our lives for as long as I could remember. Emily and I grew up in the same maternity ward in Manchester, our mothers sharing a cramped ward, later discovering we lived on adjoining streets and spent countless afternoons in the same tiny park. We went to the same nursery, the same primary school, the same comprehensive, and finally enrolled together at the University of Liverpool. Our resemblance was uncanny: the same cheekbones, the same quick grin. Olivia was a touch more headstrong, while I was, as my mother used to say, far too gentle.
Our mothers had always praised our bond. Youll be like sisters, Mrs. Bennett would say, smiling at my mother, Mrs. Clarke. Look after each other, girls. And we did. We shared homework, secrets, and even the occasional heartbreak. When Sophie first drifted into our little circle during our final year, we were cautious. She was determined, trailing us like a shadow, and eventually, the three of us became inseparable. Yet her presence always carried a hint of competition; when Olivia and I were together, Sophie would retreat, nursing a quiet resentment that seemed to flare whenever we forgot to include her.
Olivia was the first to marry. At twentyone she wed a charming accountant from Leeds, and we celebrated with a tiny house in the suburbs of Chester. I waited until I was twentyfive, then married William, a promising civil engineer four years my senior. We both wanted children, and there were no medical warnings, yet the months slipped by without the pitterpatter of tiny feet. It was a silent strain that settled in the corners of our marriage.
Then, three years after our wedding, Olivia announced she was pregnant. She refused to reveal the fathers name, but I suspected David, the boy shed been dating for a year before he vanished after an angry argument. Olivia declared with a confidence that surprised even herself, Ill manage. I have enough money for the baby and a nanny. William and I pledged our support, while Sophie, ever the skeptic, rolled her eyes and muttered about the responsibility of fatherhood. Only a husband should raise a child, she warned, otherwise its all just a mess.
When Lucy was born, I became her godmother. She would toddle into our living room, giggling as William pretended to be a clumsy dinosaur, and for a while we all forgot our own yearning for a child. Six years later, after Lucys first birthday, Olivia met Arthur Whitfielda tall, articulate solicitor from Oxford, with a smile that could light a room. She whispered that they were perfect for each other, only to sigh, But it cant be. Hes married, or perhaps his mother is a hawk. Sophie chimed in, Maybe hes already divorced; perhaps hes just a lonely old man. Olivia brushed it off, Hes been separated for ages, no children, and his mother, Eleanor Whitfield, is a formidable woman. The conversation turned sour, and Sophie laughed, Consider yourself luckyhes off to Berlin on a work assignment, so youve lost a fiancé already.
The tension between us and Sophie grew. She mocked me for trading a child for a man, and I felt a bruise form in my chest each time her sarcasm landed. The next morning, William, seeing my hesitation about taking Lucy permanently, asked, Should we give her a stable home? She deserves that. I pleaded with him, We cant let her slip through the cracks. Shes practically family now. He smiled, Im all for it, love. Does Olivia agree?
Olivia was initially startled by the proposal. She hesitated, citing school arrangements and Lucys lack of English, but eventually relented, promising to send money. Ill cover her expenses, she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. I replied, Youre the best husband anyone could ask for, and clung to Williams arm, feeling the warmth of his presence.
Lucy settled quickly into her new routine, spending afternoons with us while her mother visited occasionally. One evening, during a video call, Sophie appeared, bottle of wine in hand, complaining about a new boyfriend who refused to commit. You pamper Lucy like shes a heirloom, she slurred, and youre the only one whos decent about it. I tried to keep my composure, but the words cut deep. Sophies drunken tirade continued, Lucys father isnt you, William; youre just a good bloke willing to take in a strangers child. William, after the call, sighed and muttered, Someone needs to cut down on the wine.
Later, while tucking Lucy into bed, I noticed her small hands, the way she laughed exactly like William, and the way she gripped a spoon just as he did. My mind racedcould William be her biological father? The thought gnawed at me, and I found myself watching Williams every move, searching for clues. My suspicion grew until it became an obsession, turning our oncepeaceful evenings into silent, wary exchanges.
The strain finally snapped when William, after a particularly tense dinner, suggested I see a doctor. He said, Maybe theres something were missing, love. I left the table, my heart pounding. Three days passed without a word between us. Then, the news came like a punch: Arthur Whitfield and Olivia were involved in a car crash on the M6. He suffered severe injuries; Olivia didnt survive.
The funeral was a blur of grief and paperwork. We arranged for her to be buried back home in the English countryside, paying for the transport from London to Manchester, draining our savings. In those dark days, my thoughts about Lucy faded, replaced by sorrow for my dear friend. When the shock finally receded, the old doubts resurfaced.
Lucy should stay with us, William repeated, his voice steady this time, two weeks after the burial. The temporary guardianship was ending, and the decision loomed. His tone, once harsh, now felt like resolve. It irritated me againwas he pushing because she was his own? I shouted, Is it because shes yours? Admit it!
He answered calmly, What am I supposed to endure, Emily? Have you been listening to Sophies lies? The argument escalated, and I, feeling my patience snap, declared, Ill make a decision only after a DNA test. William agreed, and the lab results came back: he was not Lucys father.
Shame washed over me. I had let my mind conjure betrayals that were never there. I realized I had been unfair to Olivia, blaming her for something I couldnt prove. I resolved to let go of the accusation, to forgive both her memory and my own irrational fears. I cut ties with Sophie, telling her plainly that I no longer wanted her in my life.
Now, as I write, William pretends nothing happened, his shoulders relaxed. He tells me that his new project at the firm will keep him busy, and I smile, because, finally, there is a hint of good news on the horizonmy own pregnancy test has turned positive. Perhaps the universe is finally giving us the child we have longed for, while we continue to care for Lucy, who has become a part of our family in a way that no DNA can define.
