“Ready to meet Daddy, love?” the nurse smiled, passing me a snugly wrapped bundle. “Lookeveryone’s already waiting outside with flowers.”
I nodded, cradling my son. His tiny face was solemn, almost stern. My boy. Our boyJames and mine. I moved to the window, searching for my husbands familiar car, but it wasnt there. Only strangers joyful faces, balloons drifting into the sky, and bouquets like cotton clouds.
The phone in my robe buzzed. James. Finally.
“Hello! Where are you? Theyre discharging us now,” I blurted before he could speak. “Were all setthe babys ready.”
A hum like an airport filled the line, and a womans laughter in the background.
“Emily, hi. Listen thing is,” his voice was oddly bright, detached, “Im not coming.”
My smile faltered.
“What do you mean? Is something wrong?”
“No, alls grand! JustIm off on holiday. Last-minute deal popped up. Couldnt say no, could I?”
I glanced at my son. He sighed in his sleep.
“Holiday? James, we have a son. We were meant to go home. Together.”
“Dont fuss. Your mums sortedshell fetch you. Or take a cab. Ive wired money.”
_Money._ As if we were an inconvenience to be paid off.
“Are you going alone?”
A pause. In that silence, I heard it allthe late-night “meetings,” the “urgent trips.” The lies Id ignored.
“Emily, dont start. Im knackered. Ive a right to unwind.”
“You do,” I said evenly, breath shallow. “Of course.”
“Brilliant! Boarding now. Cheers!”
The line died.
I stood in the sterile ward, holding my sonso real, so warmwhile my old life crumbled like a stage prop.
The nurse peeked in. “Did Dad make it?”
Slowly, I shook my head. “No. Hes on holiday.”
I didnt cry. Something inside hardened, cold as a pebble in frozen water. I dialled Mum.
“Mum, can you fetch us? Yes, just me. Take us home. To the cottage.”
Dad met us at the hospital gates in his old Rover. Silent, he took little George from me, cradling him awkwardly but tenderly. He didnt speak the whole drive, jaw tight, eyes on the road.
That quiet strength meant more than words.
The village welcomed us with woodsmoke and damp earth. The cottage, unused for years, felt foreigncreaky floors, the morning ritual of stoking the stove, water drawn from the well. My city life, with its comforts and delusions, was miles away.
The first weeks blurred into exhaustion and despair. I felt a burden. Mums eyes held quiet sorrow; Dad withdrew, his disapproval unspoken but clearnot for returning, but for choosing James despite his warnings.
Then he called. Two weeks later, voice buoyant.
“Hello, love! Hows my little champ?” as if the hospital conversation never happened.
“Were at my parents,” I said flatly, wiping Georges chin.
“Ah, goodfresh air. Does him good. Ill pop by soon, play with the lad.”
_The lad._ Spoken like a toy to be picked up later.
Weekly calls followed. Hed coo at George on video, then rush off. As if this were some agreed arrangement. As if he hadnt abandoned us.
Then a “friend” sent a screenshot: James, arms around a woman at a café, caption: _”Best decision I ever made.”_
I stared at my chapped hands, the pile of nappies to wash in icy water. It hit methis wasnt a holiday. Hed moved on.
We were just obstacles, bought off with petty cash.
Humiliation burned my cheeks. I stopped calling. I waited.
A month later, his tone was brisk, businesslike.
“Emily, we need to talk. Im selling the flat.”
I sank onto the garden bench. George slept in his pram beside me.
“Our flat? James, where do we go?”
“Its business. I need capital. Youll get your share£5,000 should cover it.”
_Five thousand._ Our sons worth.
“You cant. Half is legally ours.”
A cold chuckle.
“Whose law? The flats in Mums name. To avoid hassle. You agreed. Good luck proving otherwise.”
That was it. Not the infidelitythe icy calculation as he robbed his son.
That evening, Dad sat beside me on the porch.
“A real man doesnt just talk, love. He acts. Do right by George. Were here.”
Something shifted. No more victim.
Next day, the well pump failed. Dad called a neighbourTom, a quiet man with rough hands, who fixed it swiftly, refusing payment.
“Neighbours help neighbours,” he said, spotting George. “Sturdy lad, that one.”
After he left, I dug out our marriage certificate, Georges birth record”James” bold in the fathers line. I rang a solicitor.
My voice didnt shake.
“Hello. Im Emily. I need a divorce and child support. My husband wont provide.”
The case dragged. James skipped court, sent a slick solicitor who questioned paternity.
A cheap shot to scare me. I dug in.
“Whats your game?” James spat after the DNA test order. “Bleeding me dry?”
“You chose this,” I said.
The test confirmed it. The court set child support at a quarter of his income. His lawyer claimed poverty, but mine exposed his offshore accounts.
The sum was heftyenough that his “best decision” vanished overnight.
As the case wound on, life in the village took root. Tom visited oftenmending the roof, playing with George. One day, he brought a carved wooden train.
“Daddy!” George beamed, thrusting it at Tom.
Tom froze, glanced at me. I smiled. My son had chosen his father.
We married a year laterquietly, no fuss. Tom adopted George, gave him his name. He was the sort they call “a rock.”
Years passed. We built a new home. Had a daughter.
James turned up one autumn evening, gaunt, in a frayed coat.
“Emily, I came to see my son.”
Tom answered the door.
“George!” he called. “Visitor.”
Five-year-old George studied the stranger.
“Hello.”
“Son Im your”
James stopped. Took in Tom, the sturdy house, our lives.
“Wrong address,” he muttered, shuffling away.
A decade on, we sat on the porch. Eleven-year-old Lily giggled as fifteen-year-old Georgetall, broad like Tomdodged her attempts to steal his ball.
“Mum, Dad, were off to the river!” George called.
I leaned into Tom. James betrayal didnt break meit hurled me into truth. Rubbish about easy money had left him bankrupt. He never learned to build anything real.
Toms hands rested on my shoulders. Im a happy woman.
That betrayal didnt ruin me. It led me here. Sometimes, you must lose your way to find the right pathpush off the bottom, swim toward the light. Toward real life.
