**Diary Entry 15th June**
Alright, love, ready to meet Dad? the midwife smiled as she passed me the snugly wrapped bundle. Lookeveryones already gathered outside with flowers.
I nodded, holding my son close. His little face was solemn, almost scowling. My boy. Our boyJamess and mine. I moved to the window, searching for my husbands familiar car, but it wasnt there. Just strangers beaming, balloons floating into the sky, and bouquets like fluffy clouds.
The phone in my dressing gown buzzed. James. Finally.
Hello! Where are you? Theyre discharging us now, I rushed out before he could speak. Im dressed, and the babys ready.
A faint airport murmur filled the line, and a womans laughter in the background.
Emily, hi. Listen, thing is His voice was oddly distant, cheerful. Im not coming.
My smile vanished.
What do you mean? Whats happened?
Nothing! Its just Im flying off. For a break. Last-minute holiday dealcouldnt pass it up.
I glanced at my son. He stirred in his sleep.
Flying where? James, we have a son. We were meant to go home. Together.
Oh, dont fuss. Your mums meeting you, isnt she? Or take a cab. Ive sent money to your account.
*Money*. As if we were an inconvenience to be paid off.
Are you going alone?
He hesitated. In that pause, I heard it allevery late-night meeting, every urgent work trip. The lies Id ignored.
Emily, dont start, alright? I just need a proper holiday. I deserve it.
You do, I said flatly, my chest tight. Of course you do.
Brilliant! Right, theyre boarding. Love you!
The line died.
I stood in the sterile hospital room, staring at my son. So warm, so real. And my old life? A flimsy stage set, torn down.
The midwife peeked in. Dad here yet?
I shook my head slowly, eyes on my boy. No. Hes gone on holiday.
I didnt cry. Something inside hardened, like a pebble in frost. I dialled Mum.
Mum, hi. Can you fetch me? Yes, just me. Take us home. To yours. The countryside.
Dad met us at the hospital gates in his battered Land Rover. Silently, he took baby Thomas from me, cradling him awkwardly but gently against his broad chest. Not a word the whole drive to the village, just the clench of his jaw beneath his weathered skin.
That quiet strength meant more than any speech.
The village smelled of woodsmoke and damp earth. Our old house, untouched in a decade, felt aliencreaky floorboards, the wood stove needing feeding at dawn, water drawn from the well. My city life, with its illusions, was miles behind.
The first weeks blurred into exhaustionThomass cries, my despair. I was a burden. Mums sighs, Dads silence. I knew he blamed menot for coming home, but for choosing James despite his warnings.
Then James rang. Two weeks later. Bright and breezy, like nothing had happened.
Hiya, love! Hows my little champ? he boomed, as if he hadnt abandoned us.
Were at my parents, I said, wiping Thomass chin.
Ah, goodfresh air, proper countryside. Ill pop by soon, play with the lad.
*The lad*. As if his son were a toy to pick up when convenient.
Weekly calls followed. Hed coo at Thomas on video, then rush off. As if this were some mutually agreed separation. As if he hadnt left me alone with a newborn.
Then a friend sent a screenshot: James, arms around a woman in a café. The same laugh from the phone call. Caption: *Best decision I ever made.*
I studied my chapped hands, the pile of nappies soaking in icy water. It wasnt a holiday. Hed moved on. We were just obstacles, bought off with pocket money.
The humiliation burned. I stopped calling. I waited.
A month later, his tone was all business.
Emily, we need to talk. Im selling the flat.
I sank onto the garden bench. Thomas dozed in his pram.
Our flat? James, its our home! Where do I go with the baby?
Its just money tied up. Ill give you your cutthirty grand should cover it.
*Thirty thousand pounds*. Our sons future, priced.
By law, half is mine and Thomass.
A cold chuckle. What law? The flats in Mums nameremember? Less hassle. You signed off on it. Good luck proving otherwise.
That was it. Not the cheating. The ice in his voice as he cut his son adrift.
That evening, Dad joined me on the porch.
A real man acts, Emily, he said at last. Do right by your boy. Were here.
Enough of being helpless.
Next day, the well pump broke. Dad called a neighboura bloke named Mark, mid-thirties, quiet, hands rough from work. Fixed it in minutes, refusing payment.
Neighbours help neighbours, he said, wiping grease off his fingers. His eyes flicked to Thomas. Hell be a sturdy one.
After he left, I dug out the paperworkmarriage certificate, birth certificate, *Father: James* in bold print. I rang a solicitor.
No more trembling. Hello. Im Emily. I need a divorce and child support.
The court battle dragged. James skipped the first hearing, sent a slick lawyer who insinuated paternity doubts. A cheap shot. I held firm.
Whats your game? James spat after the DNA test proved him the father. Bleeding me dry?
You chose this.
The judge ordered a quarter of his income for Thomas. His lawyer wheedled about business losses, but mine exposed his dodgy accounts.
The sum was hefty. His best decision vanished soon after.
Life in the village settled. Mark dropped by oftenfixing the roof, playing with Thomas. One day, he brought a carved wooden train. Thomas, nearly two, clutched it.
Daddy! he said, grinning at Mark.
Mark froze. I just smiled. My son had chosen his father.
We married a year laterno fuss, just us. Mark adopted Thomas, gave him his name. The sort of man they call a rock.
Years passed. We built a proper house. Had a daughter, Lily.
James turned up one autumn, gaunt in a worn coat.
Emily, I came to see my son.
Mark answered the door. Tom! Visitor.
Five-year-old Thomas bounded out. Hello.
Hey, son James reached out. Im your
He stopped. Took in Mark, me, the solid home behind us. Understood he was too late.
Wrong house, he muttered, and shuffled off.
Ten years on, we sat on the porch. Eleven-year-old Lily giggled as fifteen-year-old Tomtall, broad, the image of Markdodged her grabs for the football.
Mum, Dad, were off to the brook! Tom called.
I leaned into Mark. Jamess betrayal didnt break me. It hurled me into the real. Last I heard, hed gone bankruptchasing flash over substance, ending with nothing.
Marks hands rested warm on my shoulders. Im happy.
And that happiness began *because* of the betrayal. Sometimes you must hit the bottom to push uptoward the light. Toward whats true.
