Dear Diary,
I keep replaying his words in my head: I dont want this baby, Emily! Want trouble? Abort it, and dont come crawling back to me! Andrew shouted, his voice raw with cruelty, while I stared at him, unable to believe the man Id loved, the one Id leaned on with my whole heart, the one Id given everything to, was saying that.
We first met on a rainy night after a birthday dinner at a little café in Brighton. My friend Claire had overindulged in wine and could barely flag down a cab. I, whod never even touched a drop, helped her into the backseat of a bright yellow taxi. The driver, a cheerful bloke named Andrew, helped us with our bags, drove us to my flat in a council estate, and even handed my parents the keys. That was how our paths crossed.
Andrew, the driver, seemed decisive from the start. The next day he rang me and asked me out. One date led to another, and within a week he was urging me to move in together in the small onebedroom flat my late grandmother had left me. The place was modest, a bit shabby, but it was mine. At twenty Id never been in a relationship that serious. I wasnt particularly striking; I was quiet and shy. Once another decent chap asked me out, but Claire swooped in a few days later and stole him away. I wept for two days, then convinced myself I wasnt worthy of him, calmed down, and even forgave Claire, though she never felt remorseshe believed handsome men should chase beautiful women like herself.
Andrew kept pestering me to let him move in, promising soon to register us at the registry office. He begged for a little patience until he could earn enough for a wedding. I believed him and said yes, keeping it from my mother, knowing shed disapprove. My parents lived in a village miles away, rarely visited, and were preoccupied with their own health and the same old chores. I didnt fear them finding out about Andrew.
At first everything seemed perfect. I raced home from work on cloud nine, trying to cook something special to impress him, to prove I was better than any other pretty girl. Andrew was delighted, praised, and even flattered that hed become my first real mansomething that stroked his pride. He never asked for money; I assumed he was squirreling away his earnings for the wedding.
The illusion shattered one cold winter evening when, blushing shyly, I told Andrew I was expecting a child. His reaction was a harsh, Get an abortion! How could he say that when I wanted the baby, when it would be our first, the smartest, most beautiful child?
Do you expect me to spend my evenings listening to screams, changing filthy nappies? he snarled. Who will cook if youre stuck with a baby? And how will you afford anything when youll be off work on maternity leave? Dont count on me for any of that; Im not here to be a donkey.
I froze, horror gripping me. Where had the gentle Andrew vanished? How could he become this monster in an instant? I gathered all my resolve and told him Id never abort the child, no matter what. He shouted that hed never acknowledge the baby as his, packed his things, and left.
That night I ran a fever and was bedridden for over a week. When I finally recovered, I threw myself into thinking only of the baby, determined it would be born healthy. A purpose blossomed within me.
Eight months later, while I was on maternity leave, I spotted Andrew outside my block, clutching a bunch of flowers and a bag of fruit.
Hey, he said far too cheerfully, brought you a treat. Cant afford to buy anything yourself, can you?
Its fine, I manage, I replied softly.
Seeing him again stirred a flicker of hope; perhaps hed changed, perhaps we could be a real family. Yet he didnt ask to come back; instead he pressed me to register him as the babys father, claiming he now understood the joy of having a child, promising regular financial support and help with the infant. It felt odd, but I saw no benefit for him, so I reluctantly agreed.
He began to drop by often, bringing veg, fruit, milk. He never stayed long, but kept saying how eager he was for the babys arrival. Oliverour sonlooked just like his father. My mother, Margaret, came to stay for a fortnight to help. When I told her Andrew wanted to be on the birth certificate and pay maintenance, she hesitated. Why isnt he proposing marriage? she wondered. Yet Andrew managed to convince her, even hinting he might think about a wedding, asking only for patience.
After the hospital discharge, we went to the registry office and entered Olivers surname as Andrews. Margaret left after two weeks, unable to persuade me to move back to the village.
For a few months everything settled. Oliver grew calmly, and there was always enough milk. Andrew would pop in once a week, ask about Olivers health, hand over a few pounds and always take a receipt from me. I couldnt fathom his behaviour.
The truth emerged on the day Oliver turned nine months. Claire arrived, bottle of wine in hand, suggesting we celebrate. I reminded her I never drink and Im nursing. Well then, have a glass, Ill toast for you, she said, pouring herself a drink. She laughed loudly, gesturing wildly, and spilled wine on the floor, refusing to let me mop it up. Suddenly there was a knock. A mans voice called for Claire. I thought shed leave, opened the door, and the man rushed in, arguing with the inebriated Claire. Voices rose, dishes clattered, Oliver wailed, and police burst inAndrew among them.
I was bewildered. They told me the father was taking Oliver because the flat reeked of alcohol, everything was smashed, the fridge empty. Aunt Tonya, a spiteful neighbour from the fifth floor, arrived screaming that the flat was always a scene of drunkenness and that shed testify to strip me of parental rights. I tried to get Claire to confirm she hadnt drunk, that the place was always tidy and the baby fed, but the trail had gone cold.
Andrew dragged Oliver away as I screamed, pleading through tears that he was not his child, that I was a good mother. Nothing helped. I collapsed on the sofa, the room empty, and fainted.
The next morning I forced myself to the police station. No one would talk to me; they all insisted Id lose my parental rights and that Oliver would be better off with a welloff father. I left in tears, leaning against a wall, when a woman in a uniform approached.
Im sorry for yourself, I can see youre a good mum, she said. The father of your child is married to the daughter of a very rich family. She cant have children because of a youthful indiscretion. Theyve arranged all this, bribed many, even your friend and neighbour. Theres one way outif you were married to a respectable man, a judge could rule in your favour. Five years ago she lost her own daughter. Do you have anyone in mind? Even a sham marriage could save you.
I lowered my head; I had no such person. She thanked me and walked away. I didnt want to go back to that empty flat, so I sat on the stairwell bench and wept.
Excuse me, are you alright? a kind male voice asked. Can I help?
Marry me, I whispered through sobs, lifting my head, trembling.
A tall, broadshouldered man in his midthirties stood before me, a long scar running across his cheek.
If that saves you, Ill do it, he said, smiling.
I stared, first frightened, then mesmerised as his scar seemed to fade under his grin. His eyes were a clear blue, warm and inviting me to hope.
Are you a respectable man? I asked, suddenly afraid of offending him.
I hope so, he chuckled, the President even gave me an honour.
Then please, marry me, I choked, I need this.
Within an hour Id poured everything out to Max. We sat at his cosy kitchen table, sipping hot black tea with a splash of blackcurrant. He turned red with anger at the injustice, took my hand, and marched us straight to the registry office. As a former soldier, he didnt need to wait; they booked us for the next day.
The court took my side, the false witnesses tangled up, bewildered by the presence of several uniformed officers whod come to protect the wife of a comrade. By evening Oliver fell asleep peacefully beside me.
I wrapped him gently in a blanket and went to the kitchen where Max waited. I didnt know what the future held for a marriage of convenience, but I could not bear to lose this solid, reliable man. I realized Id fallen for him; despite the scar he was the most handsome man Id ever seen. I walked to the kitchen doorway, inhaled deeply, ready to speak, but Max beat me to it:
Emily, what would you say if I offered to give Oliver a couple of brothers? Ive always dreamed of a wonderful mother for my children. Ive searched for you for so long. Stay my wife, I beg you.
I smiled, closed my eyes, pressed my cheek against his broad chest, feeling only his strong arms, never seeing his face, only the comfort of his embrace that promised never to let me down again.
