Late Bloomer

"Duckie, where the bloody hell are you?" Emma's voice echoed up the stairwell of their childhood home, bouncing off the faded William Morris wallpaper their mother had insisted was "timeless." "We're going to be spectacularly late!"

In the upstairs bathroom, Sophie sat perched on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the sanitary pad in her hand with growing concern. Nothing. Not even a spot. She was never late—had prided herself on being able to predict her cycle down to the hour since she was fifteen. Her stomach lurched.

"I'm late," she whispered to herself, the words hanging in the air like a bomb about to detonate.

"Yes, we're bloody late!" Emma appeared in the doorway, her black dress impeccably tailored, pearl earrings catching the light. "Aunt Vivian would be absolutely mortified. You know how she felt about punctuality."

Sophie looked up, momentarily confused by the disconnect. "No, Em. I mean—" She stopped herself. This wasn't the time. Not today. "Have you seen my maroon shoes?"

Emma's face contorted. "The squeaky ones? For a funeral? Bloody Nora, Soph, you're twenty-one, not twelve."

"They're comfortable," Sophie muttered, tucking the unused pad back into its wrapper. "And they're the only black ones I brought home."

"They're burgundy at best, and they sound like you're murdering a rubber duck with every step." Emma checked her watch—their father's old Omega that she'd claimed after the heart attack took him three years ago. "We should have left fifteen minutes ago."

Sophie pushed past her sister into their old bedroom, where her overnight bag lay open on the single bed. Emma hovered in the doorway, tapping her foot in a rhythm that said more than words ever could.

"Aunt Viv would understand," Sophie said, slipping her feet into the offending shoes.

"Would she? The woman who once left a dinner party because the host was seven minutes late serving the main course?"

There was a truth to this that Sophie couldn't deny. Their father's sister had lived by a pocket watch and died with one in her hand—massive stroke at sixty-three, alone in her immaculate kitchen, halfway through preparing tea for a guest who arrived to find her gone.

"Right," Sophie said, standing up straight and smoothing her dress. "Let's go."

Emma's gaze lingered on her sister's face. "You alright? You look peaky."

"Fine," Sophie lied. "Just didn't sleep well."

"You look like you've seen the ghost of Margaret Thatcher in M&S lingerie."

The sisters clattered down the stairs, Emma calling out to their mother, who was already waiting in the car. As they stepped outside, fat raindrops began to fall, because of course they did. Nothing said "British funeral" quite like getting drenched in formal wear.

"I need to stop at Boots," Sophie blurted as they reached the car.

Emma turned, keys in hand. "What? Now?"

"Yes, now. It'll take two minutes."

"We don't have two minutes!"

Their mother wound down the window of the ancient Volvo. "Girls, please. We're already going to be late for Vivian's service."

"Late for your own funeral," Emma muttered.

"Is what she'd say if she were here," their mother finished, a small, sad smile playing at her lips.

Sophie slid into the back seat while Emma took the wheel—a family configuration they'd settled into after Dad died. No one wanted to sit in his old spot.

The Volvo sputtered to life, and Emma pulled away from the curb with more force than necessary. The window wipers squeaked across the glass, creating a rhythm that matched the anxiety building in Sophie's chest.

"Emma, I really do need to stop," Sophie insisted after they'd gone a few blocks.

"What is so urgent that it can't wait until after we've paid our respects to our dead aunt?" Emma's eyes found Sophie's in the rearview mirror.

There was a beat of silence.

"Feminine products," Sophie lied, knowing it would shut Emma up. It did.

"Fine," Emma sighed, "but we're making it quick."

She swung the car into a space marked "Loading Only" outside a Boots pharmacy, the tires kissing the curb.

"I'll go," Emma declared, clearly wanting to control even this. "What exactly do you need?"

Sophie hesitated. "I'll come with you."

"Don't be ridiculous. It's pouring. Just tell me what you need."

"It's... complicated."

Emma rolled her eyes so dramatically it was practically audible. "Pads or tampons, Sophie. It's not quantum physics."

Their mother intervened. "Emma, let her go if she wants to."

"Fine," Emma snapped, grabbing her handbag. "But we're in and out in under three minutes."

The sisters dashed through the rain to the pharmacy, Emma's sensible heels clicking purposefully while Sophie's shoes emitted their trademark squeak with every step. Inside, the fluorescent lights made everything look slightly unreal, like they'd stepped into another dimension where time moved differently.

Emma marched toward the feminine care aisle. "Right, what do you need?"

Sophie lingered by the entrance, gathering courage. "Actually, I need something else."

Emma turned, impatience radiating from her. "What?"

Sophie couldn't say it. Not here. Not now. "Can you just... wait here a minute?"

Before Emma could protest, Sophie darted down another aisle. She found what she was looking for almost immediately—pregnancy tests, lined up neatly like soldiers awaiting orders. She grabbed one without looking too closely at the brand and hurried to the counter.

The pharmacist, a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a name tag that read "Dr. Patel," smiled at her. "Just this today?"

Sophie nodded, acutely aware of her funeral attire, her squeaky shoes, and the fact that her bossy older sister could appear at any moment.

"That'll be £8.99."

As Sophie fumbled in her purse, she heard the unmistakable click-click of Emma's heels. Before she could complete the transaction, Emma was beside her.

"What's taking so—" Emma stopped, her eyes landing on the pregnancy test. Her expression shifted from irritation to shock to something Sophie couldn't quite name.

Dr. Patel, clearly sensing the tension, discreetly slid the test into a paper bag.

"Sophie," Emma began, her voice lower now.

"Not here," Sophie whispered, handing over a tenner.

Dr. Patel cleared his throat. "If I may," he said softly, "whatever the result, remember that beginnings come in many forms. Some of the best ones start unexpectedly." He handed Sophie her change with a warm smile that somehow made the weight on her shoulders a fraction lighter.

"Thank you," she managed.

The sisters stepped back into the rain, neither speaking. When they reached the car, Emma realized she'd left the lights on. The battery was dead.

"Perfect," Emma hissed. "Absolutely bloody perfect."

Their mother lowered her newspaper. "Problem?"

"Just fate having a laugh at our expense," Emma said, slumping against the steering wheel. "We're officially going to miss the start of the service."

As if on cue, a parking enforcement officer appeared, pad in hand, already writing up a ticket.

"Excuse me," Emma called, scrambling out of the car. "We're just having a bit of car trouble. We'll move in a moment."

The officer—young, with a severe haircut and eyes that had seen too many parking violations to care about human tragedy—didn't even look up. "You're in a loading zone with no commercial activity taking place."

"We were loading," Emma argued. "Loading... emotional baggage."

The officer remained unmoved, tearing off the ticket and placing it under the wiper blade. "You can appeal if you feel it's been issued incorrectly. Officer Daniels, badge number 4729."

As the officer walked away, Emma snatched the ticket. "Officer Daniels," she read, crumpling the paper in her fist. "I hope your day is as pleasant as you are!"

Forty minutes and one jump start later, they pulled up outside St. Mary's Church. The service had indeed started; the mournful notes of "Abide with Me" drifted out into the churchyard.

"Remember," their mother whispered as they approached the heavy wooden doors, "dignified entrance."

Sophie nodded, conscious of her shoes. She'd try to walk on her tiptoes, she decided, to minimize the—

The door creaked open, and the three women slipped inside. Sophie took one step, then another, and then—squeak. A high-pitched, unmistakable sound that echoed through the vaulted ceiling like a cartoon sound effect.

Heads turned. The vicar paused mid-sentence. Somewhere in the front row, a relative Sophie couldn't quite identify stifled a laugh.

Mortified, Sophie froze. Emma grabbed her elbow and propelled her forward, each step producing another squeak that seemed to grow louder in the silence.

They finally reached an empty pew near the back, sliding in next to a distant cousin who smelled of mothballs and disapproval.

"You'd be late for your own funeral," their mother whispered to Emma.

"Only if you're arranging it," Emma shot back, but there was no real venom in it.

The vicar resumed his sermon. "Vivian Blake was a woman who valued precision in all things," he said, and Sophie could swear he glanced in their direction.

Sophie barely heard the rest of the service. Her mind was racing between the pregnancy test burning a hole in her handbag and memories of Aunt Viv—teaching her to bake perfect scones, pressing five-pound notes into her palm "for something frivolous," showing up at every school play even when her parents couldn't make it.

Aunt Viv, who never had children of her own but treated Sophie and Emma as if they were the daughters she'd always wanted. Who'd funded Emma's law degree and had just begun helping with Sophie's university fees. Who would never meet her great-niece or nephew if Sophie was indeed pregnant.

The thought hit her with unexpected force. Tears welled up, spilling over before she could stop them.

Emma noticed—Emma always noticed—and handed her a tissue without comment. Their mother, on Sophie's other side, took her hand and squeezed gently.

After the service, they filed into the church hall for the wake. It was exactly as Aunt Viv would have wanted it—elegant finger sandwiches, tea in proper cups, and absolutely no cheap wine. Sophie recognized faces from childhood visits, holidays, and the occasional forced family gathering.

"Sophie!" A voice cut through her thoughts. Mrs. Henderson, her aunt's neighbor. "Look at you, all grown up. You're at university now, yes? What are you studying?"

"English Literature," Sophie replied automatically.

"Ah, lovely. Though not very practical, is it? Your sister had the right idea with law."

Before Sophie could respond, Emma appeared at her side, champagne flute in hand. "Actually, Sophie's brilliant. She's already had a poem published in the university journal."

Mrs. Henderson looked surprised. "How nice."

"If you'll excuse us," Emma said, steering Sophie away.

"Thanks for that," Sophie murmured.

"No one gets to be condescending to you except me," Emma replied with a half-smile. "Family privilege."

They found a quiet corner, away from the clusters of reminiscing relatives.

"So," Emma said after a moment, "are we going to talk about it?"

Sophie looked down at her squeaky shoes. "Not here."

"When, then? Because if you are... you know... there are decisions to be made."

"I know that," Sophie snapped, louder than she intended. A few heads turned their way.

Emma lowered her voice. "I'm just saying, you're twenty-one. First year at uni. There are options."

"I know there are options," Sophie hissed. "But I don't even know if there's anything to have options about yet."

Their mother approached, carrying two plates of tiny sandwiches. "Your aunt's solicitor wants a word," she said. "Something about the will."

Emma straightened immediately. "I'll come with you."

Sophie watched them go, then slipped away toward the toilets, pregnancy test clutched in her bag like a talisman. The bathroom was mercifully empty—one small cubicle with faded pink tiles and a sink that had seen better decades.

She locked the door, hands trembling as she removed the test from its packaging. The instructions were simple enough. Pee on the stick. Wait three minutes. Two lines pregnant, one line not.

Sophie followed the instructions, then placed the test on the edge of the sink. Three minutes. One hundred and eighty seconds that felt like an eternity.

She thought about Jake, her boyfriend of eight months. Sweet, funny, still figuring out what he wanted to do with his life. They'd been careful, mostly. Except for that one night after the Halloween party...

A knock on the door startled her.

"Occupied," she called.

"It's me," Emma's voice. "You've been in there ages."

Had it been that long? Sophie glanced at the test. Still processing.

"I'll be out in a minute."

"Sophie, open the door."

"I'm kind of in the middle of something, Em."

A pause. "I know what you're doing. Let me in."

Sophie hesitated, then unlocked the door. Emma slipped inside, making the tiny space feel even smaller.

"Have you looked yet?" Emma asked, nodding toward the test.

"It's not ready."

They stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the little window where fate was deciding itself. Sophie was suddenly grateful for her sister's presence, bossy and irritating as she could be.

"Whatever it says," Emma began, her voice gentler than Sophie had heard it in years, "I'm here. We'll figure it out."

The test began to show results, lines materializing like magic. Sophie held her breath.

Another knock on the door, more insistent this time.

"Just a moment!" Emma called.

"Emma? Sophie? Are you both in there?" Their mother's voice now, concerned. "The solicitor's waiting."

Sophie stared at the test, the reality of the situation crystallizing before her eyes.

"Girls?" Their mother again.

Emma looked at Sophie, a silent question in her eyes. Sophie nodded.

"We'll be right out, Mum," Emma called. "Sophie's just feeling a bit peaky."

They heard their mother's footsteps retreat.

"What are you going to do?" Emma asked, her eyes on the test between them.

Sophie took a deep breath, feeling something settle within her—not quite certainty, but something close to it. "I'm going to figure it out. One day at a time."

Emma nodded, then surprised Sophie by pulling her into a tight hug. "Aunt Viv would have said something insufferably practical right now."

Sophie laughed softly against her sister's shoulder. "Probably about how being late isn't always a bad thing."

"Late bloomers often have the most beautiful flowers," Emma murmured, an exact mimicry of their aunt's distinctive cadence.

Sophie stepped back, wiping her eyes. "She really would have said that, wouldn't she?"

"Without a doubt." Emma smoothed her dress. "Right, time to face the music. And the solicitor."

In the church hall, their mother was waiting with the solicitor, a thin man with perpetually raised eyebrows.

"There you are," their mother said. "Mr. Finch was just explaining that Vivian left something specific for each of you."

The solicitor nodded. "Ms. Blake was very precise about her bequests."

He handed Emma an envelope. "For when you pass the bar," he said.

Emma's fingers trembled slightly as she accepted it.

To Sophie, he gave a small velvet pouch. "She said you would understand when the time was right."

Inside was a delicate gold watch, its face rimmed with tiny sapphires. Sophie recognized it immediately—the watch Aunt Viv had worn on special occasions, the one she'd admired as a child.

Attached was a small card in her aunt's elegant handwriting: "For Sophie, who marches to her own time. The best journeys rarely follow a schedule."

Sophie closed her fingers around the watch, feeling its weight—the physical presence of her aunt's absence, but also something else. A permission slip, perhaps. Permission to be late, to be early, to be exactly on time for her own life rather than anyone else's.

Later, as they drove home, Sophie's squeaky shoes resting on the floor of the car, the pregnancy test tucked securely in her bag, she looked out the window at the passing countryside. The rain had stopped, and the late afternoon sun broke through the clouds, illuminating the world in that peculiar golden light that makes everything seem both more real and more magical.

"Are you all right back there?" her mother asked, catching her eye in the rearview mirror.

Sophie touched the watch in her pocket and thought about time—how it stretched and compressed, how a single moment could change everything, how being late wasn't always a failing.

"I will be," she said. And for the first time that day, she believed it.

As they pulled into their driveway, Sophie thought about the days ahead—telling Jake, making decisions, figuring out what came next. It would be complicated, messy, possibly wonderful.

When they were alone, Emma turned to her sister. "So, Officer Daniels," she said casually. "Bit fit, wasn't he? For a jackbooted enforcer of parking regulations."

Sophie rolled her eyes. "Seriously? That's what you're thinking about right now?"

"Just making conversation. Besides, I might need to contest that ticket in person."

As they walked toward the house, Sophie's shoes squeaking with every step, she realized something. Maybe being late—for a funeral, for university milestones, for the rest of her life's supposed timeline—wasn't the end of the world. Maybe it was just the beginning.

Sophie placed a hand on her still-flat stomach. "Late bloomer," she whispered, too softly for anyone else to hear. "Let's see what grows."