I became a father without even knowing who the mother was
At thirty, I’d been living the classic bachelor life—freedom, no responsibilities, weekends with mates, pub on Fridays, the odd date here and there. I once even said to myself, “I’ve got a good ten years left of living for me.” I thought I had all the time in the world to someday become a husband and dad. But, as it turned out, fate had other plans.
That morning was no different from any other. I left the house at half eight like usual and headed to my car. Then I spotted something odd—a pram sitting by the front steps. At first, I assumed a neighbour had just left it there for a minute. But as I got closer, my blood ran cold—there was an actual baby inside. Next to it, a note in a woman’s handwriting: “Alex, this is your daughter. Her name is Emily. Please take care of her.”
My legs nearly gave way. The world around me seemed to freeze. Who was this woman? When had this even happened? Was this some kind of joke? On autopilot, I scooped the little girl up and carried her inside. I called my mum—the only person I could trust in that moment. Within an hour, she was at my door, armed with nappies, dummies, baby cream, and an unshakable calm. My mum’s a miracle worker. In minutes, the screaming bundle in her arms was peacefully dozing. Meanwhile, I sat at the kitchen table, staring into space.
Once I’d pulled myself together, I decided to get a DNA test—I needed to be sure. A few days later, the results came back: I really was the father. My chest tightened. Somewhere in that string of fleeting flings, this “accident” had happened, and now here I was with a daughter.
The first few months were pure chaos. Emily cried through the night, I barely slept, and I had to learn how to change nappies, make porridge, and warm milk to just the right temperature. I hired a nanny and even had a paediatrician make a house call. That’s how Alice came into our lives—quiet, kind, and endlessly patient. She didn’t just look after my child; she looked after me, too. At some point, I realised I was counting down the days till her next visit. Then came our first coffee date. Then came her hand in mine on our first trip to the registry office.
Now our little Emily is two. Alice and I live together, raising our girl, and I can’t imagine life without either of them. I became a father. I became a husband. I’m not that carefree bloke who lived day by day anymore. And in a strange way, I’m grateful to the woman who left Emily on my doorstep. Maybe one day I’ll even thank her—for turning my life upside down and filling it with meaning.
These days, I don’t wake up to an alarm. I wake up to tiny hands patting my cheek and a voice chirping, “Daddy, get up!” And my heart swells with something I never knew before. That’s real happiness.