**An Unexpected Turn of Events**
The pale light of dawn barely crept through the thick curtains when my mother, Elizabeth Carter, rushed into our small flat on the outskirts of Manchester to look after my son, Oliver. As always, I was in a hurry to get to work, but I couldn’t ignore how worn-out she looked—dark circles under her eyes, her face unnaturally pale, as if she hadn’t slept in days.
“Mum, are you alright? Should I cancel my meetings? Oliver’s a handful—are you sure you’re up for it?” I asked, searching her tired eyes for answers.
“Go on, Charlotte, I’ll manage,” she brushed me off, but her voice trembled. “Just a bit queasy in the mornings. Must be my liver acting up. I ought to see a doctor.”
“Fine, I won’t be long. Tomorrow, Daniel’s home—he’ll watch Oliver, and we’ll go to the clinic together,” I said firmly.
Oliver’s two and a half, a whirlwind of energy who never sits still. But Mum, despite being forty-six, had always been full of life. “They’ll manage,” I told myself, casting one last glance at them before leaving.
The next day, we headed to the medical centre. After a full examination, Mum and I sat in the sterile white corridor, waiting for the results. Finally, the doctor appeared, his expression grave but with a flicker of something in his eyes.
“Elizabeth Carter, congratulations!” he announced warmly. “You’re pregnant, about twenty weeks along. Why didn’t you come in sooner? At your age, you must be extra careful.”
“P-p-pregnant?” Mum gasped, her eyes flooding with tears. She pressed her hands to her face, as if trying to absorb the impossible.
“Nothing to worry about,” the doctor reassured her gently. “You’re in good health, and everything’s under control. It’s a little girl. The nurse will bring the ultrasound scan in a moment.”
We were stunned. A bolt from the blue. Silently, we left the clinic and sat on a bench outside. The biting wind tugged at our hair as we sat there, speechless.
“Did you suspect anything?” I finally asked, turning to her.
She shook her head, her expression utterly bewildered.
“I saw the gynaecologist six months ago. She told me I was starting menopause—the dizziness, the fatigue, all normal. I never imagined… How is this even possible?”
“Shall I give you the birds-and-bees talk?” I teased, trying to lighten the mood, and we both broke into nervous laughter. “Shall we ring Dad? He’s not just a grandfather now—he’s a father again. Honestly, Mum, I’m thrilled for you. I always wanted a sister!”
Mum blushed, her cheeks flushing scarlet like a schoolgirl’s.
“People will talk, Charlotte! What will they think? A woman my age, suddenly with a baby!” she fretted, tugging at the edge of her coat.
“Who cares what they say? Let them try it themselves. They’ll gossip, then forget,” I retorted. “Come on, let’s go home and tell Dad. It’ll be less scary together.”
We returned home, and if Dad was shocked, that’s putting it mildly. He froze, staring at us wide-eyed, as if we’d announced an alien invasion. Five minutes of silence, then he let out a yell loud enough to rattle the windows. The next second, he bolted out the door, leaving us baffled.
“Has he—run off?” Mum whispered in panic, her face white.
“Gone to drown himself in the canal,” I joked poorly, and Mum shrieked before racing after him.
We caught him on the landing between floors. In one hand, he clutched a huge bouquet of red roses; in the other, a bottle of champagne. Right there in the dingy stairwell, he thrust the flowers at Mum, his voice cracking with emotion.
“Lizzie, you’re a miracle! The most wonderful woman in the world! Thank you for this happiness. This is the best day of my life!”
“What about me?” I folded my arms, feigning indignation.
“Second best!” he corrected quickly, grinning sheepishly.
“Hold on—so there *is* a less wonderful one?” Mum teased. “And you’ve only had *two* happy days?”
“Don’t confuse me, I’m emotional!” he pleaded. “I’m just over the moon!”
“Alright, Shakespeare, let’s go home before the neighbours start sticking their heads out,” Mum smirked, and we burst into laughter.
The whole evening, Dad doted on Mum—fluffing her pillows, cooking dinner, practically spoon-feeding her. Finally, she groaned, “I’m pregnant, not dying! Save the fuss for the baby!”
Later, I told my husband, Daniel. He roared with laughter, slapping his knee.
“Your mum’s something else! Oliver, you’re getting an aunt! You’ll have to protect her and teach her the ropes.”
Oliver, of course, didn’t understand, but he clapped his hands joyfully, caught up in the excitement.
The pregnancy wasn’t easy. Mum had to be hospitalised three times, and each time, we worried for her and the baby. But in the end, everything turned out fine. Right on schedule, a beautiful little girl was born—Sophie. Now it was my turn to help Mum, taking Sophie for walks and sharing the load.
We bought her a bright pink pram, and while strolling through the park with Oliver and Sophie, passers-by often asked my son, “Out with your little sister? Helping your mum?”
“No!” Oliver would puff out his chest proudly. “That’s my aunt! Gran had her!”