The First Time I Saw You: the most heartwarming and emotional love story of the year

by Emma Cooper

  ‘Oh, you do do that, Sammy,’ Sarah butts in. ‘You always nod three times. We used to think you had a twitch, didn’t we, Mam?’

  ‘We did, love, you’re right.’

  Bret carries on, ignoring the ramblings of my family. ‘How I know that when he falls asleep he always sighs five minutes later—’

  Isabella snorts, ‘You do . . . a bit quicker than that if you’ve just—’

  ‘How do you know that, love?’ Mam asks. ‘Oh. I—’ I feel Mam wafting her hand in front of her face.

  Da laughs. ‘Mrs M, you do turn a lovely shade of pink when you’ve put your big foot in your mouth!’ Bret shuffles the paper. ‘Sorry, Bret lad, you carry on,’ Da instructs.

  ‘Where was I? Right; he always sighs five minutes later, and that he always eats his crusts before he eats the rest of his toast.’

  ‘That’s because you always wanted curly hair, love.’

  ‘Shush!’ Sarah commands.

  ‘Love doesn’t tell you how I feel when I lean against him, how he fixed me when I didn’t even know I was broken. I know what you must be thinking – if you loved him that much why did you leave him . . . and the answer is simple really. I didn’t want to break him. He was already perfect: he had no cracks; nothing about him was brittle or damaged; he was everything I wasn’t. And then he met me, and I began to chip away at him; tarnished something that was pure and fun and caring and loving and instead made him angry and bitter.

  ‘It’s taken me a long time to find the person who is writing you this email, to be able to accept that what he saw in me was there after all. It was just that he was the only one who could see it.’

  Bret stops for a moment. ‘Do you want me to carry on?’

  I nod; words lie unspoken on my tongue for the moment. Sophie’s smile as she held her family lingers and confuses me.

  ‘I know now that I won’t break him. I know this time I can fix the damage; I know this time that when he looks at me, I won’t feel like an imposter. He was the only person who could see me when I was blind to everyone else.

  ‘There is something else I need to tell him, Bret, something that will hurt him, but I know he will understand, I know he will be able to forgive me, but please, I’m begging you, please give him the chance to choose me.’

  The paper crackles as he folds it, and the air stills, waiting for my reaction.

  ‘When did she send it?’ my voice asks. It feels detached from me; my mouth has a life of its own. The rest of my body is numb, but the words jump from my tongue and my voice carries the words around the room and across the world.

  ‘Last week. I take it you changed your mind about seeing her after we last spoke?’

  ‘No, no . . . I saw her all right.’ My mouth opens and closes, and the words escape without my control. ‘She’s pregnant.’

  ‘Whoa. Whoa . . . pregnant? Is it yours?’

  Isabella shifts towards me and Da lets out a long sigh.

  ‘No,’ I say, not wanting to let that tiny bit of doubt unravel what I know I need to do.

  ‘Are you sure, because I’m no mathematician, but man, it could be yours, couldn’t it?’ Bret leans forward, optimism clinging to his words.

  ‘She, look, it doesn’t matter. I saw her with another man, she was happy; they were a family.’

  ‘Then why would she send this?’ I hear Bret wave the piece of paper about and see a glimpse of white flashing across the screen.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Maybe she’s having problems with the new one, Sammy?’ Da adds.

  ‘Sam,’ Isabella says softly, ‘that doesn’t sound like an email from somebody having a few problems. It sounds like an email by somebody who is in love with you.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, she . . . I saw . . . you don’t know the way she looked. She was happy, in this little cottage with her perfect man and her perfect bump, and you heard what she said!’ My body has caught up with the words that are forming, my heart is screaming, my lungs are gasping, and my eyes are full. ‘I was the only person who could see her.’ My voice rises. ‘SEE her! How can I walk back into her life, back into a life where she doesn’t need to be fixed – isn’t that what she said, Bret? How can I go back to her when I’m the one that is damaged; I’m the one who can’t be fixed, I’m the one who can’t fucking see her! She wants me to choose her, that’s what she says, right?’ I get no response. ‘Right?’ I repeat. ‘Well, I am choosing her. I did see her, and I know that her life without me will be better than one with me in it. I’m the one who will be brittle and damaged. You’ve seen how many times I fall or bump into things – how can I do that to her? She’s better off without me.’

  ‘But if you just speak to her? Let her explain?’ Isabella pleads.

  ‘Have you got a phone number, Bret my boy? If we can get this girl on the phone we can sort this out right now. What do you say, Sammy boy?’ Da claps his hands together as if Mam has just told him it’s pie and chips for tea.

  Michael pulls me up, and I hold on to him for support as I tell them, ‘This is my decision.’

  ‘What if I talk to her? Tell her about the accident, tell her about your sight?’ Bret asks eagerly.

  ‘No! If what she says in this email is true, if she loves me that much, do you think she will stay away if she knows about the accident?’ I take a deep breath. ‘I don’t want to talk to her on the phone because I know I’m not strong enough to stay away if I hear her voice, if she tries to tell me I’m making the wrong decision . . . I’m not strong enough to do what is right . . . do you understand?’ I say, wiping a tear away. ‘I’m choosing to save her.’ Michael pulls me across the room, away from temptation and away from the hurt.

  ‘Sammy!’ Da shouts.

  ‘Sam!’ Isabella calls but I slam the door behind me.

  Week Thirty-Three

  Sophie

  I went into town earlier this week. I’d battled my way past buggies and hand-holding pensioners, past passive-aggressive voices of arguing couples, until I found myself inside a shop.

  My hand stopped at a rail that had an outfit of the softest and palest beige and white stripes, with a small embroidered bunny popping out of a pocket in the middle. My fingers followed the tiny arms of the outfit and stroked the ridiculously tiny trousers that ended inside small, rounded pockets where Bean’s feet would be cocooned. Bean shifted and stretched in approval. I looked at the sizes: 0–3 months, newborn, tiny baby . . . surely they were all the same thing? I held up the outfits but could see there was definitely a difference in size.

  ‘Can I help?’ A lady with a neat brown bob and smelling of powder and violets was smiling at me, reaching for the clothes. My first real shopping trip for Bean and I was already stuck. I looked at the wall behind her, where boxes of monitors, stair gates and car seats stood in a smug and organised array. I didn’t have a clue about any of it. Sweat rose up through my pores as the sound of rushing water filled my ears, dampening the sounds of the shop.

  ‘Yes, um, yes, please . . . I don’t know which to get.’ I laughed at myself nervously, trying to ignore the sense of panic I was feeling. My mouth was dry, my hands shaking.

  ‘Not to worry, that’s what I’m here for. When are you due?’ She nodded towards Bean.

  ‘The thirteenth of November,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Not long now, then?’

  ‘Seven weeks.’

  ‘I was five weeks early with my first . . . Everyone told me it would be late, being my first, but my Rachel is as impatient now as she was then. You’re carrying a lot in your back, aren’t you?’ I had no idea what she was talking about, but I nodded and smiled.

  ‘If I were you, I would go for the newborn size. No point in getting the 0–3 unless you’re expecting a big baby, and you’re only small yourself . . . what about baby’s daddy?’

  ‘Oh, he’s tall.’ I thought of the way his feet stuck out of the end of the bed. ‘Very tall.’

  ‘Let’s hope baby has your frame then, eh?�
�� She nudged me in a way that admitted me into the club. The women-who-have-children club. The club where women talk about leaking breasts and pureed food, dilating cervixes, epidurals and stitches; that brag about first steps and sleeping patterns.

  ‘Um yes.’ I smiled.

  ‘Is there anything else that you need?’

  I looked around the shop.

  ‘Yes, I, well, the thing is, I need everything really. I haven’t had a chance to buy anything yet and . . .’ My words trailed off as the lady’s eyes widened.

  ‘Right. Well then. Let’s get you and that baby—’

  ‘Bean,’ I said proudly.

  ‘Bean, sorted.’

  Since my trip to the shop, I have pushed aside the growing pile of invoices and receipts that I need to check – a lot of my new clients tend to keep paper records of their businesses which makes my life harder – but I have left them inside their respective folders and have decided to start on the nursery. My lounge is filled with boxes of deliveries. I’ve chosen a video baby monitor, an electric breast pump, a steriliser, a changing bag, a changing mat, a changing table . . . the list goes on and on. Charlie shouts a hello as I reach the paintbrush up towards the last of the cornice; lemon paint trickles oily colour over my fingers as I replace the brush in the tray.

  ‘I’m in the nursery!’ I shout as I reach for the roller and begin sweeping lemon over the wall in bold arches. He bounds up the stairs and frowns at the step ladder.

  ‘What? I’m being careful.’ I smile down at him as I continue swooping and diving with the roller.

  ‘There’s another delivery downstairs.’

  ‘Oooh, that’s the cot!’ My feet lower themselves down the four steps of the ladder which Charlie has decided to hold on to even though the ladder is perfectly solid-footed and stable. He takes my hand as I step off, and I replenish the roller and continue my assault on the walls.

  ‘Do you want me to help you put the cot up?’ I pause my rollering for a split second; I can’t subject him to that. He’s doing well but I’m always conscious of what could send him spiralling back into the place with trips to the solicitor and neatly written letters. I know he has been going to counselling; every Thursday morning I look out of the window and check that he is getting in his car, that he is still going, that he is trying to get better.

  ‘No thanks, I’m good. Ouch!’ I gasp.

  Charlie is at my side, the creases in his forehead puckering with concern.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing . . . just Braxton Hicks.’

  ‘Hmm. Give me the roller.’

  ‘What? No!’ I say indignantly. ‘I’m fine, Charlie, I like doing this. It’s therapeutic and it stops me from checking my phone for emails and missed calls every two minutes.’

  ‘Still nothing?’

  ‘Nope, nothing from Bret, not even a response from the advert I put in the Derry Journal.’

  ‘Desperately Seeking Samuel?’ he asks with a small smile.

  ‘Still,’ I answer him as I try to crouch down but give up and sit on my bottom instead, legs spread wide apart, taking the roller in two hands and pushing it against the wall above my head. My phone rings but my fingers are covered in paint and so I leave it to go to voicemail.

  ‘I’ve got to go into town . . . my appointment has been changed.’ I don’t need to ask which appointment he’s talking about, and I’m relieved that he is going even though it’s Tuesday, not Thursday. Charlie is a person who likes routines.

  The roller hovers over the wall.

  ‘Please don’t go back up that ladder before I get back?’

  ‘I’ll be careful.’

  ‘I mean it, Sophie . . . you’ll make me hurry and then I might drive recklessly,’ he adds, raising his eyebrows at me, knowing that he has won the argument by playing a brutal card.

  ‘That is so unfair.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have to say it. You should just listen in the first place.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll finish this wall and then I’ll stop for a bit.’ I rub my hand on my back where a pain is radiating along the base of my spine and around the front of my stomach. ‘OK, Bean, I’ll take a break.’

  The water in the sink changes into banana milkshake as I rub the paint away and clean the brushes, my fingers swollen and my nails tipped with paint like a DIY French manicure. I wave goodbye to Charlie through the window and wince as the pain in my back burns inside my skin. The calendar tells me it’s the nineteenth of September. I flick the kettle on and reach for my phone. There is a missed call and an answerphone message from an unknown number. My fingers glide over the screen as the kettle fills the room with steam and the switch clicks off.

  A robotic voice begins: ‘This is a message for Miss Williams. I’m calling about your energy supplier, did you know that you could be paying more than you should—’

  I know it’s just a sales call, but I slam my phone back on to the counter, my eyes filling with tears. I pour the hot water over my tea bag; the tightening across my stomach reminds me that I’m running out of time to find Samuel and I bite my lip in frustration. The phone rings again and I snatch it up, ready to give the robot what for, but instead I hear an American drawl asking if this is Sophie Williams.

  ‘It is . . . Bret?’ I ask, my heart hammering inside my ribcage.

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry that I’ve not been in touch sooner . . . I was away and then, well, then I spoke to Samuel.’ Bean kicks and turns as I walk to the table and sit down, my legs barely able to keep me standing. The late evening sun paints the walls pink as I try to calm myself enough to process his words which float around the empty kitchen.

  ‘You’ve spoken to Samuel?’ I ask. My face tries to react appropriately, but it doesn’t know whether to smile or frown. My hand runs over Bean rhythmically, calming my own feelings by calming my child’s. ‘Is he OK? Did you send him my email?’ Words fall from my lips like notes from a piano; a melody of rise and fall and desperation.

  ‘He knows about the email but there is more I have to tell you, but before I do, you have to understand that Samuel doesn’t know about this, OK? He doesn’t know I’m ringing you. After I told him about our lunch I—’

  ‘When did you tell him?’ I sit forward. He takes a deep breath.

  ‘The day you left.’

  ‘But that was weeks ago!’ My hand goes to my mouth as I realise what this means. Samuel doesn’t want me.

  ‘It was. Look, Sophie, he came to find you, but . . .’ My hurt is followed with optimism, each emotion pushing the other aside, jostling for their moment in the spotlight. ‘He knows about the baby, Sophie, he knows about your . . . new life, your new relationship. It broke him, Sophie.’

  ‘But how? When? I haven’t seen him – nobody really knows me here!’

  ‘He saw you through the window; he saw you and your baby and your new . . . friend.’

  ‘Charlie?’

  ‘Er, yes, if that’s his name? Samuel was, well, in bad shape when he got back to Ireland. But he’s moved on. He wants you to be happy with your baby and . . . Charlie.’

  ‘He wants me to be happy raising my child without him?’ My volume rises as I try to make sense of what Bret is saying.

  ‘Yes. He could see that you were happy. He wants you to be happy.’

  ‘But that doesn’t make sense! I want to be happy with him! I want him to be part of my baby’s life, I want him to be there when Bean takes—’

  ‘Bean?’

  ‘I call my baby Bean.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I want him to be there when Bean babbles first words, first steps, I want him to take Bean to the park, to push our child on the swings!’

  ‘Hold on a minute, Sophie. Are you saying that Samuel is the father?’ This sentence numbs me. The dust mites catching in the bruised light slow their movement and stay suspended, motionless. The clock ticks loudly and determinedly. This isn’t how it was meant to be. This isn’t how I wanted Samuel to find out, but I have no choice.<
br />
  ‘Yes. Samuel is Bean’s father. Charlie is my neighbour, my friend. Nothing more.’

  ‘But Sammy said it couldn’t be his. He saw you holding each other, he said you were happy.’

  ‘Happy? I haven’t been happy since the day I left DC, since he betrayed me.’

  ‘Betrayed you? Sam never betrayed you. He tried to give up his job so you could be together, but they wouldn’t release him from his contract until after the investigation.’

  I think of the look on his face as he closed the door behind him that morning, the way he had looked distracted as I stood in front of him wearing his shirt. Had he just given up his career for me?

  ‘Bret, I need you to give me Samuel’s phone number and address.’

  Another pain tightens my insides and I blink back the tears that have formed at the intensity of it.

  ‘I can’t, Sophie. I told you, he doesn’t know I’m calling you. There are other things, things I can’t tell you about Samuel, he’s not the same person.’

  ‘Please!’ I rub my lower back again. ‘Please, Bret, I have to speak to him.’

  ‘I’ll speak to him, I’ll try to explain. I promise. I’m sorry, I, I’ll be in touch. Take care.’

  ‘No! Wait! I want to tell him, just give me his number. I can explain . . . Please, Bret, please.’

  But the line is already dead.

  Week Thirty-Three

  Samuel

  ‘Sweet Mary and Joseph! Samuel, would you look at this!’

  Mam pushes a newspaper in my face, the crisp sound of the pages as they crinkle and bend. The inky smell of today’s headline mixes with the smell of bacon coming from the kitchen. My fingers grab it. I feel its familiar weight; the fold of the spine is firm and sharp in my hands as it presses the contents at me: read me, read me, read me. But I can’t. The fist is almost clenched, the end of the tunnel is almost closed, brick laid upon brick is blocking out the fading light.

  My guide dog application is being processed and I’m looking for my own place to live so I can begin my new life, but Sophie’s words keep pulling me away and I’m not sure I’m strong enough to do the right thing.