“Alright, love, ready to meet Daddy?” the midwife grinned as she handed me a snugly wrapped bundle. “Lookeveryones already outside with flowers, waiting for you.”
I nodded, cradling my son close. His little face was serious, almost scowling. My boy. Our boyJamess and mine. I glanced out the window, searching for my husbands familiar car, but it wasnt there. Just strangers smiling faces, balloons bobbing into the sky, and bouquets like fluffy clouds.
Then my phone buzzed in my dressing gown pocket. James. Finally.
“Hello! Where are you? Theyre discharging us now,” I rushed out before he could speak. “Im all dressed, and the babys ready.”
Through the receiver came a muffled hum, like an airport, and a womans laughter in the background.
“Emily, hi. Listen, thing is…” His voice was oddly distant, almost chirpy. “Im not coming.”
My smile dropped.
“What do you mean? Did something happen?”
“No, everythings brilliant! JustIm off on holiday. Last-minute deal popped up, couldnt say no.”
I looked down at my son. He sighed in his sleep.
“Holiday? James, we have a son. We were supposed to go home. All three of us.”
“Oh, come off it, its not a big deal. Your mums meeting you, yeah? Or grab a cab. Ive transferred money to your account.”
Money. Like we were some inconvenience he could pay off.
“Are you going alone?”
He paused. And in that silence, I heard everythingthe late-night “meetings,” the “work trips,” the lies Id ignored.
“Emily, dont start, alright? Im knackered. I deserve a break.”
“You do,” I said flatly, my chest tight. “Course you do.”
“Brilliant! Right, theyre boarding. Love you!”
The line went dead.
I stood in the hospital room, government-issue furniture around me, and stared at my son. He was real, warm, alive. And my old life? Just a flimsy set, crumbling away.
The midwife popped her head in. “Well? Dad here yet?”
I shook my head slowly, eyes on my boy. “No. Hes on holiday.”
I didnt cry. Something inside me just hardened, like a stone sinking into frozen water. I pulled out my phone and dialled Mum.
“Mum, hi. Can you come get me?… Yes, just me. Take us home. To yours. To the cottage.”
Dad met us at the hospital gates in his old Land Rover. Without a word, he took little George from me, holding him awkwardly but carefully against his broad chest. He didnt speak the whole drive to the countryside, just gripped the wheel, his weathered face tense.
That quiet support meant more than any words.
The cottage smelled of woodsmoke and damp leaves. Our old home, untouched in years, felt foreigncreaky floorboards, the aga needing stoking, water from the well. My city life, with its comforts and illusions, was miles behind.
The first weeks blurred into one long, exhausting day of Georges cries and my despair. I felt like a burden. Mum sighed when she looked at me, sadness in her eyes. Dad kept his distance, and I knewhe wasnt angry Id come back. He was angry Id ever chosen James.
Then James called. Two weeks later. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, judging by his tone.
“Hi, love! Hows my little champ?” he boomed, as if that hospital call never happened.
“Were at my parents,” I said shortly, wiping Georges dribble.
“Ah, goodfresh air, proper countryside. Perfect for him. Ill pop by soon, play with the lad.”
The lad. Like he was a toy to pick up when convenient.
He called weekly after that, cooing at George over video before rushing off. Acted like wed agreed to this separation. Like he hadnt left me holding the baby.
Then a “friend” sent a screenshot. A photo. That woman from the call, laughing at a café table, James behind her, arms around her shoulders. Beaming. The caption: “Best decision I ever made.”
I looked at the photo, then at my chapped hands, the pile of nappies I hand-washed in icy water. And I knew. He wasnt on holiday. Hed moved on.
WeGeorge and Iwere just obstacles, smoothed over with petty cash so he could sleep at night.
The screen darkened, but the image burned. Humiliation prickled my skin, tight in my throat.
I stopped calling. Stopped texting. Just waited.
A month later, James rang. Businesslike. Cold.
“Emily, we need to talk. Im selling the flat.”
I sank onto the garden bench. George dozed in his pram beside me.
“Our flat? James, thats our home. Where do I go with George?”
“Listen, its business. Need the cash for a new venture. Ill give you your cutthirty grand should cover it.”
Thirty grand. Thats what his sons future was worth.
“James, you cant. Half is legally mine and Georges.”
He laughed, sharp and nasty.
“By what law, Emily? Flats in my mums name, remember? Less hassle. You signed off on it. Good luck fighting that.”
That was it. Not the cheating. That icy tone, stripping his son bare.
That evening, I sat on the porch. Dad joined me.
“A real man, Emily, isnt the one with pretty words,” he said at last. “Its the one who does right by his family. Your mum and I are here.”
Something clicked. No more victim.
Next day, the well pump broke. Dad called someone, and an hour later, an old motorbike rumbled into the yard. Off stepped Toma neighbour from down the lane, barely remembered from childhood. Quiet, steady, hands rough from work. He fixed the pump in minutes, refusing payment.
“Neighbours help neighbours,” he said simply, wiping his hands. His eyes flicked to George in the pram, and he smiled faintly. “Strong little bloke, that one.”
After he left, I dug out the paperworkmarriage certificate, Georges birth certificate, “James” bold in the fathers slot. I rang a solicitor.
No more shaking. Just steel.
“Hello. Im Emily. I need a divorce and child support. My husbands abandoned his son.”
The court case dragged. James no-showed, sent a slick lawyer who sneered, “My client questions paternity.”
A cheap shot. I just clenched my fists harder.
“Whatre you playing at?” James hissed after the DNA test confirmed he was the dad. “Trying to ruin me?”
“You did that yourself,” I said.
The court ordered a chunk of his income for child support. His lawyer squawked about “business losses,” but mine dug up his dodgy accounts.
The sum was heftyenough that his “best decision” promptly vanished.
Meanwhile, life in the village took shape. Tom dropped by oftenfixing the roof, playing with George. One day, he brought a carved wooden train. George, barely two, hugged it tight.
“Daddy!” he said, shoving it at Tom.
Tom froze, glancing at me. I just smiled. My son had chosen his father.
We married a year later. No fuss. Tom adopted George, gave him his name. The kind of man they mean when they say, “solid as a rock.”
Years passed. We built a proper home. Had a daughter.
Then James turned up one autumn evening. Gaunt, shabby, in a worn jacket.
“Emily, I… I came to see my son,” he mumbled.
Tom opened the door.
“George!” he called. “Visitor.”
Five-year-old George trotted out, eyeing the stranger.
“Hello.”
“Hey, son…” James reached out. “Im your”
He stopped. Took in Tom, me, the sturdy house. Realised he was too late.
“Wrong address,” he muttered, shuffling off.
Ten years on, we sat on the veranda. Eleven-year-old Lily giggled as fifteen-year-old Georgetall, broad, the spitting image of Tom in spiritdodged her grabs for the ball.
“Mum, Dad, were off to the river!” George shouted.
I leaned into my husband. Jamess betrayal didnt break me. It shoved me out of a lie into something real. Last I heard, hed gone bustchasing quick cash and flashy living, ending with nothing.
Toms hands rested warm on my shoulders. Im a happy woman.
And that happiness? It started because of that betrayal. Sometimes youve got to lose your way to find the right roadto push off the bottom and swim
