The True Story Of How I Met Your Daddy

My hand shakes as I write this, but I have to get it down. It's the last thing I'll be doing in this life. I want you to know who your real parents are, and the real story behind them. I love you, my baby boy.


4. Confirmation


"Thankyou, miss. And congratulations!" The customer says, as I pass over a tray of chicken nuggets and french fries. They're the 6th person since I clocked in today to say that to me, as my bump shows a lot under the maternity shirt I was donated. The due date is in three weeks, and I intend to keep working until a week before, so I get maximum pay. It seems selfish, but my landlord doesn't give rent discounts to pregnant women, so I still have to pay rent.

"Thankyou, and have a good day." I reply, putting one hand on my stomach. It's quite heavy, but tolerable, and I can feel the kicking under my palm.

"Giving you a right old assault, then." My boss asks, coming up behind me.

"Yep, all the time. You're going to be a soccer star when you're older, aren't you Little Man?" I put my head, just above the bump, then reply "Yes Mommy!" In a high voice. It always makes my boss crack up laughing.

"You've been doing that since you were told it was a boy. Any idea what you're going to call him?" My boss asks, doing some calculations and opening the till.

"I honestly don't have a clue. I've been thinking about calling him something musical. Maybe after a popular musician or something." I have considering naming after his famous daddy, but that's a little bit creepy.

 "Your choice. After all, you're carrying him." My boss counted out several $50 bills, folding them in his hand. "Why don't you ask the father? Then you could come up with a name together."

That's a little awkward. I daren't mention who the father is, as either he won't believe me, or the worst case scenario; he'll tell the papers and neither me, my son, or his father, would get any peace. Now that would be a disaster waiting to happen.

"Oh, the father. Well, that's a bit...erm...I-"

"I get it." My boss sighed, adding a few extra bills to the pile in his hand. "Don't worry about it; I don't prejudice against single moms." He counted the money out one last time, before handing it to me. "That's $20,000 in cash, or 9 months pay. Enough for maternity leave."

I couldn't believe it! I'd never had that much money before in my whole 20 years. "But I haven't worked enough for all this ca-"

"Save it, Billie. You're almost due, and it's dangerous to the baby for you to be exerting yourself too much. Just take it, and get outta here. Before I have you arrested for tresspassing."

My boss has always been kind, but $20,000! I thanked him and left for home, grinning like a Cheshire cat as I walked. I'm going to need to make a trip to Beverly Hills; I hear the baby furniture stores there are the best. I reach our flat, still ecstacic about all that money,

"Hey, how's it going? Crown Prince of Pop still hanging in there." My sister asked, dancing around the kitchen. She's always loved the idea of being an auntie, so she's completely over the moon, and overprotective.

"Great. He's been practicing his soccer skills all day. I got sent home from work aswell." I took a look in the fridge, as the cravings drive me nuts.

"What did you do now?" My sister asked, as I went over to the cupboards.

"Maternity leave. Got $20,000 pay to last me 9 months. Isn't there anything in here with even a bit of bacon in it? This little monster's making me desperate for it." I looked through the cupboards as my sister took out the $20,000.

"There might be something on the top shelf. Or I could run down and pick some up for you. We've definitely got the money for it now."

I reached up, taking down a crumpled packet of microwaveable rice. It was completely squashed, but it'll crush the cravings for now. I stick it in the microwave and lean back on the counter, clutching my bump protectively. "Yeah, we've definitely got the money now." I stretch out my back, as it's really aching, and get a few kicks in the process.

"24th of June, and the back pain will end." My sister says, counting out a few bills. "I'm off to pick up something for the baby. Be back soon, and remember." She turns to face me, looking me dead in the eyes. "Don't take any stupid risks."

"I won't." I say, as I hear the front door slam shut and the microwave go off. I open it up, take out my rice, lounge back on the sofa, flick the TV on, and start considering names. I quite like Brayden, Jerome, Reuben, or Zayn, but I haven't got a clue what the daddy would choose.

He is a star, so he'll probably follow the crazy-name trend. Place-names are common in celebrity culture, as are double-barrelled names. So I may be carrying Brayden-Harlem, Jerome-Indiana, Reuben-Boston, or Zayn-Philadelphia.

The last one is absolutely insane, and somehow hilarious. I can't stop myself from laughing at the idea of calling my baby Zayn-Philadelphia. I fall sideways off the sofa, still laughing, before a sharp pain, like something ripping inside me, jolts up my body, followed by another sharp pain. I double over, clutching the bump protectively. Water blooms on my maternity leggings, showing up garishly. I can feel another burst of pain, like someone's trying to rip me in half, travel up from my hips. It's so bad that I cry out. One loud moan echoing around the room. But it's too early for this too be happening. There's another three weeks left before my son's due. This can't be happening.

The sharp stab of pain ripping through my body, tells me it is happening, and I'd better believe it. I clutch hold of my bump, hoping I can maybe slow it down, or even stop it. The next stab of pain comes three times as painful, so I scream out in agony. It's clearly not working. I hear the front door open, then the screech of my sister dragging something heavy across the floor. Thank god she's back.

"I don't know if you would have preferred the blue one, but then again, it might actually be a girl, so I got the plain white crib instea-" She screams halfway through her explanation, as she notices me lying on the floor in project agony.

"Oh, my god! It's not the baby, is it?" She drops the heavy cradle in the hall, and runs down to me.

"Damn right it is. Oh, good lor-" I cry out again, as a particularly painful contraction runs up my spine. "My waters have broken. I'm in labour!"

No chance of it being just a realistic nightmare now. That's gone straight in the scupper. I shriek out again, as my sister picks up the house phone and dialls the three numbers.

"Hello, we need an ambulance here at Apartment 4, 211 South Rexford Drive. My sister's in labour." She sounds really frantic, and I can feel my son moving inside me. I clearly don't have a lot of time left.

"Hurry, please! I can feel him mov-" Another contraction racks my body, as I can feel my sister's cold hand on my forehead. She's clearly trying to control the pain, but it's not working. It feels like someone's stuck a pitchfork in my stomach, and is slowly twirling it round and round, like with spaghetti.

"Ok, calm down, and breath in, then out. It's going to be fine now. The paramedics are coming for you, it'll be fine." She tried to get me following her breathing exercise, and it started working, until another contraction demanded my full attention. The force of it made my body bend over into a violent spasm. I didn't have a lot of time before the birth. I groaned violently, as I heard the ambulance pull up outside. My sister went to let them in, and I was left on our ice-cold laminite floor in agony.

"She's in here!" I heard my sister shriek out, as I felt strong arms around me. They slowly lift me a foot off the floor, and lower me down onto the stretcher.

"Don't worry about a thing now. We've got you. Just hang in there until we get you to the hospital." The nurse says, picking up the head end of the stretcher, and carrying me out. I doubt I can hold on much longer though. I swear I'll actually give birth in the actual ambulance at this rate. The medics carry me down, and I'm loaded into the back with my sister. The bumps in the road are absolute agony to go over, and they set off several contractions.

"Billie, hang in there. You're going to be absolutely fine. You'll be a wonderful mother, and make You-Know-Who into a proud father. Just imagine what he's going to say when he finds out, and when he takes hold of the baby in his arms. You're going to be absolutely fine." My sister clutches my hand, telling me all the what-might-be scenarios that she can think of, so I can't concentrate on the pain. It's working a bit, but the contractions restart as soon as I'm taken into the hospital. I can't properly tell what's happening, but I know that I have about 10 minutes maximum. My sister's running alongside me; still holding my hand despite the sweat dripping off it. I just want to get it done, and get the pain over.

I feel a nurse pulling my leggings off, and her hand on my stomach. I hear her talking to my sister, then to me.

"Ok, Miss Geldburn. Take a deep breath, and I need you to push. On the count of three. One. Two. Three."

I push with all the strength I've got, and the pain increases temporarily, then subsides once I stop. I breath out and cry out again, as another contraction spikes up my spine. It hurts so badly, I just wan't it to end.

"Ok, good girl. Now I need you to do it again. Ready, ok. One. Two. Three!"

I push again, and it hurts so much. It would be a welcome relief if I died right now. I try pushing again, and I can feel my son moving. Just one more, and it'll be over. I breath in deeply, and push with all my might. It hurts so badly, but I must try. One...Last...Try!

I feel all the pain subside, and I lie back on the crisp sheets, as I hear my child for the first time. I breath a deep sigh, as my child is wrapped in a snow-white blanket and carried over in the nurse's arms. I prop myself up onto the pillows, and the nurse hands over my baby. My arms form a cradle for him, and he opens his beautiful eyes and looks me right in my eyes.

I remember someone telling me that all babies are born with blue eyes. I can't remember who said that, but they're wrong. My son has almond-shaped brown eyes, the same shade as melted milk chocolate, and they look exactly like his father's. He's absolutely beautiful, and can't possibly be anyone else's son. He wriggles inside the blanket, mewing slightly, like a kitten. I instantly know what to do. I pull the neck of my shirt down, and he instantly starts feeding. He's definitely my son My absolutely gorgeous baby son, Reuben-Harlem, Brayden, Geldburn.

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