“So, Mum, ready to meet Dad?” the nurse smiled, handing me the tightly swaddled bundle. “Look, everyones already gathered outside with flowers and balloons.”
I nodded, cradling my son close. His tiny face was serious, almost frowning. My little boy.
Mine and James little boy. I glanced out the window, scanning for his familiar car, but it wasnt there. Just strangers happy faces, balloons drifting skyward, and bouquets like little clouds.
The phone in my robe pocket buzzed. James. Finally.
“Hello? Where are you? Theyre discharging us,” I blurted before he could speak. “Were dressed, and the babys ready.”
The line crackled with what sounded like airport noise, and a womans laughter in the background.
“Liz, hey. Listen, somethings come up” His voice was oddly distant, cheerful. “Im not coming.”
My smile slipped.
“What do you mean? Is something wrong?”
“Nah, all good! JustIm flying out. Need a break. Last-minute holiday deal, you know? Cant pass it up.”
I looked down at my son. He slept soundly, his little chest rising and falling.
“Where are you going? James, we have a son. We were supposed to go home. Together.”
“Dont make a fuss, its fine. I asked your mumshell meet you. Or just grab a cab. Ive transferred some money.”
Money. He said *money*. Like he was buying his way out of us, some inconvenient mistake.
“Are you going alone?”
He hesitated. In that pause, I heard everything. Every late “meeting,” every “urgent work trip.” The sticky fog of lies Id refused to see.
“Liz, dont start, yeah? Just knackered, need to unwind. Ive got a right to that.”
“You do,” I said flatly. The air in my lungs vanished. “Of course you do.”
“Brilliant!” He brightened. “Right, boarding now. Love you!”
The call ended.
I stood in the middle of the sterile hospital room, staring at my son. He was so real, warm, alive. And my old life? Just a cheap stage set.
The nurse peeked in. “Dad here yet?”
I shook my head slowly, eyes fixed on the baby.
“No. Our dads gone on holiday.”
I didnt cry. Just felt something inside turn hard and cold, like a stone dropped in icy water.
I pulled out my phone and dialled Mum.
“Mum, hi. Can you come get me? Yes, just me. Take us home. To yours. The village.”
Dad met us at the hospital gates in his beat-up old Land Rover. Silently, he took little Alfie from me, clumsy but careful, tucking him against his broad chest.
The whole drive to the village, he didnt say a word, just kept his eyes on the road, jaw tight. That quiet support meant more than any speech.
The village smelled of woodsmoke and damp leaves. The old housewhere I hadnt lived in a decadefelt foreign. Creaky floors, the wood stove needing morning kindling, water from the well. My city life, with its comforts and illusions, was miles away.
The first weeks blurred into one endless day of Alfies cries and my despair. I felt like a burden. Mum sighed watching me, her eyes full of quiet sorrow. Dad withdrew, and I knewhe blamed me. Not for coming back, but for choosing James in the first place.
Then James called. Two weeks later. Cheery, refreshed, full of life.
“Hiya, love! Hows my little champ?” he crowed, as if that hospital call never happened.
“Were at my parents,” I said flatly, wiping Alfies drool.
“Oh, right. Fresh air, good for him. Ill pop by soon, give the heir some cuddles.”
*The heir*. Like our son was a thing he could pick up and play with when convenient.
He called weekly after that. Video-chatted with Alfie, cooed at the screen, then rushed off. Acted like we were just living apart temporarily. Like he hadnt left me alone with a newborn.
Then a “friend” sent a screenshot. A photo. The woman from the call, laughing at a café table, James arm around her. Happy. In love. Caption: *Best decision I ever made*.
I stared at the photo, then at my chipped nails, the pile of nappies waiting to be washed in icy water. Realisedhe wasnt just on holiday. He was building a new life.
Alfie and I? Just a nuisance he paid off to ease his conscience.
The humiliation burned. I stopped calling. Waited.
James phoned a month later. Businesslike. No trace of his old charm.
“Liz, hi. Need to talk. Selling the flat.”
I sat on the old wooden bench in the yard. Alfie napped in his pram beside me.
“*Our* flat? James, thats our home. Where do I go with Alfie?”
“Listen, its business. Need the cash for a new venture. Cant have it tied up in bricks. Ill give you a cutsay, two grand? Enough to get by.”
Two grand. Thats what our sons future was worth to him.
“James, you cant do this. The law entitles Alfie and me to half.”
He smirked. Cold. Ugly.
“Which law, Liz? Flats in my mums name. Less hassle, remember? You agreed. Sue all you like. Good luck.”
That was the final straw. Not the betrayal. The icy, calculating tone as he cut his son adrift.
That evening, I sat on the porch. Dad joined me.
“A man, Liz, isnt the one with pretty words,” he finally said. “Its the one who acts. Do whats right for your boy. Were here.”
Something clicked inside me. *Enough*.
The next day, the well pump broke. Dad called a mate, and an hour later, an old motorbike rumbled into the yard. Off hopped a tall, rugged blokemid-thirties.
*Tom*. Neighbour from down the lane, barely remembered from childhood. Quiet, capable, hands rough from work. He fixed the pump in half an hour, refusing payment.
“Neighbours help neighbours,” he said simply, wiping his hands. His gaze landed on Alfie in his pram, and he smiled faintly. “Strong lad.”
Later, I dug out the paperwork: marriage certificate, Alfies birth certificate*Father: James Wright* in black and white. I called a solicitor.
No more shaking. Voice steady.
“Hi. Im Elizabeth Carter. I want a divorce and child support. My husbands abandoned his son.”
The court battle dragged. James no-showed, sent a slick lawyer who claimed “paternity doubts.” A low blow, meant to break me. It just hardened my resolve.
“You daft cow,” James hissed after the court ordered DNA tests. “Trying to ruin me?”
“You did that yourself.”
The test proved him the father. The court ordered child supporta quarter of his income. His lawyer claimed his business was failing, but mine exposed his dodgy accounts. The sum was hefty. So hefty his “best decision” packed up and left.
During the case, village life took root. Tom visited oftenfixing the roof, playing with Alfie. Once, he brought a carved wooden horse. Alfie, now two, hugged it tight.
“Dada!” he beamed, holding it up to Tom.
Tom froze, glanced at me. I just smiled. My son had chosen his father.
We married a year later. Quietly. Tom adopted Alfie, gave him his name. He was the kind of man they call “a rock.”
Years passed. We built a new home. Had a daughter, Lily.
One autumn evening, James appeared at our door. Gaunt, worn, in a shabby jacket.
“Liz, I wanted to see my son,” he mumbled.
Tom opened the door wider. “Alfie! Visitor.”
Five-year-old Alfie bounded onto the porch. Studied the stranger curiously.
“Hello.”
“Hi, son” James reached out. “Im your”
He stopped. Took in me, Tom, the solid house behind us. Realised he was too late.
“Wrong address,” he muttered, and left.
Ten more years. We sat on the veranda. Eleven-year-old Lily laughed, trying to wrestle a ball from fifteen-year-old Alfietall, broad, so like Tom in the ways that mattered.
“Mum! Dad! Were off to the river!” Alfie called.
I leaned into my husband. James betrayal didnt break me. It hurled me from a fake world into a real one. Last I heard, he
