Olivia Hartwell slams the ultrasound report onto the kitchen table. Another baby? Youre teasing me! she snaps. Four generations of men in our family have worked on the railway, and you bring this?
Emily, resting a hand on her swollen belly, whispers, A little onepiece. Well call her Poppy.
Olivia sighs, Poppy at least its a decent name. But what will she be good for? Wholl need a Poppy?
Max stays glued to his phone. When Emily asks his opinion, he shrugs. Whats there, there is. Maybe the next one will be a boy.
Emily feels a tight knot form inside. The next one? Is this a rehearsal? she wonders.
Poppy arrives in Januarytiny, huge eyes, a tuft of dark hair. Max shows up only for the discharge, bearing a bouquet of carnations and a bag of baby clothes.
Beautiful, he says, peering gently at the pram. She looks like you.
And that nose, Emily laughs, and that stubborn chin.
Enough, Max waves off. All babies are the same at this age.
Olivia meets them at the door with a sour expression. Neighbour Valerie asked if it was a grandson or granddaughter. Embarrassing to admit Im still caring for dolls at my age
Emily withdraws to the nursery and quietly weeps, pressing the newborn to her chest.
Maxs hours lengthen. He picks up extra shifts on nearby rail lines, claiming the familys expenses, especially with a child, are high. He returns home late, exhausted and silent.
Shes waiting for you, Emily says as he passes the cot without looking. Poppy always comes alive when she hears your steps.
Im knackered, Emily. Im on an early shift tomorrow.
But you havent even said hello to her
Shes too small to understand.
Poppy, however, does understand. Emily watches her turn her head toward the door each time she hears Maxs footsteps, then stare into emptiness as the steps fade.
At eight months Poppy spikes a fever. First it climbs to thirtyeight, then thirtynine degrees Celsius. Emily calls an ambulance, but the doctor says she can stay home on paracetamol for now. By morning the temperature hits forty.
Max, get up! Emily yells, shaking him. Poppys really ill!
What time is it? Max rubs his eyes. Seven. I havent slept all night. We need to go to hospital.
Is it that early? Cant we wait until evening? Ive got a crucial shift
Emily looks at him as if he were a stranger.
Your daughters burning up, and youre thinking about work?
Shes not dying! Kids get sick all the time.
Emily orders a taxi herself.
At the hospital staff whisk Poppy to the infection ward, suspecting a serious inflammation and ordering a spinal tap.
Wheres the father? the ward manager asks. We need consent from both parents.
Hes at work. Hell be here soon.
Emily phones Max all day; his line is dead. At sevenp.m. he finally answers.
Emily, Im at the depot, busy
Max, Poppy has meningitis! They need your consent for the tap right now!
What? A tap? I dont understand
Come immediately!
I cant, my shift runs until eleven. After that Ill sort it with the guys
Emily hangs up. The consent is signed by Emily alone, as the mothers right. The tap is performed under general anaesthetic; Poppy looks tiny on the large operating table.
The results will be ready tomorrow, the doctor says. If it is meningitis, treatment will be lengthyabout a month and a half in hospital.
Emily spends the night in the ward; Poppy lies under an IV, pale and still, her chest rising only faintly.
Max shows up the next day for lunch, looking gaunt and dishevelled.
Hows she? he asks, hesitant to enter the room.
Bad, Emily replies shortly. The lab results arent back yet.
What did they do to her?
A spinal tap. They took fluid from her spine for testing.
Maxs face turns ashen.
Did it hurt her?
She was under anaesthetic, didnt feel a thing.
He walks to the bedside and freezes. Poppy sleeps, a tiny hand folded over the blanket, a catheter glued to her wrist.
Shes so small, Max murmurs. I never imagined
Emily says nothing.
The tests come back negative for meningitisjust a common viral infection with complications. She can be treated at home under a doctors watch.
Youre lucky, the ward manager says. A day or two of delay and it could have been worse.
On the drive home Max sits silent. Only when they pull up to the house does he ask quietly, Am I really that bad as a father?
Emily readjusts the sleeping Poppy and looks at Max.
What do you think? she asks.
I thought there was plenty of time, that she was too little to understand anything. Then I saw those tubes realised I could lose her. And losing someone matters.
Max, she needs a dadnot a provider, not the one who merely brings home money. A dad who knows her name, who can tell you her favourite toys.
What are they?
A rubber hedgehog and a jingling rattle. When you come home she crawls to the door, waiting for you to pick her up.
Max lowers his head. I didnt know.
Now you do.
At home Poppy wakes and lets out a soft, plaintive cry. Max instinctively reaches for her but stops.
May I? he asks Emily.
Shes your daughter.
He lifts her gently; she hiccups and then steadies, studying his face with big, serious eyes.
Hello, little one, Max whispers. Im sorry I wasnt there when you were scared.
Poppy tugs a tiny hand to his cheek and touches his cheek. Max feels a strange tightness in his throat.
Daddy, she says clearly.
Its her first word.
Max looks at Emily, eyes wide.
She said
Shes been trying for a week, Emily smiles. Just waits for you to be away to speak up.
That evening, when Poppy falls asleep in Maxs arms, he carefully places her back in the cot. She doesnt stir, only squeezes his finger tighter in her sleep.
She doesnt want to let go, Max notes, surprised.
Shes afraid youll disappear again, Emily explains.
He sits by the cot for half an hour, reluctant to release his grip.
Tomorrow Ill take a day off, he tells her. And the next day too. I want to get to know my daughter better.
What about work? The extra shifts?
Well find another way to earn. Or live more simply. The point is not to miss her growing up.
Emily wraps her arms around him.
Better late than never.
Id never forgive myself if something happened and I never knew her favourite toys or that she could call me dad, Max says softly, gazing at the sleeping Poppy.
A week later, fully recovered, the three of them head to the park. Poppy perches on Maxs shoulders, laughing brightly as she grabs at autumn leaves.
Look at that, Poppy! Max points at the golden maples. Theres a squirrel over there!
Emily walks beside them, thinking how sometimes you have to risk losing the most precious thing to understand its true worth.
Olivia meets them at the doorstep with a disapproving scowl.
Max, Valentine told me her grandson is already playing football. And yours just with dolls.
My daughter is the best in the world, Max replies calmly, setting Poppy on the floor and handing her the rubber hedgehog. And dolls are wonderful.
But the family line will break
It wont. It will continue, just in a different shape.
Olivia tries to protest, but Poppy crawls up to her and tugs at her hands.
Grandma! she exclaims, beaming.
Olivia, bewildered, lifts the little girl.
Shes talking! she gasps.
Our Poppy is very clever, Max says proudly. Right, love?
Daddy! Poppy shouts, clapping her hands.
Emily watches the scene, realizing that happiness often arrives through trials, and the deepest love is the one that blossoms slowly, forged by fear and loss.
That night, Max hums a lullaby to Poppy, his voice low and a little hoarse, while she watches with wide eyes.
You never sang to her before, Emily notes.
I missed a lot before, Max admits. Now I have time to make up for it.
Poppy drifts off, clutching Maxs finger tightly. He sits in the darkness, listening to her breathing, thinking about all the moments he could have missed if he hadnt paused.
She sleeps, smiling in her dream, now sure that her dad isnt going anywhere.
This story came from one of our readers. Sometimes fate demands more than a simple choiceit needs a severe test to awaken the brightest feelings in a person. Do you believe a person can truly change when they realise they might lose what they love most?
