“Alright, love, ready to meet Dad?” the midwife grinned as she passed me a snugly wrapped bundle. “Lookeveryones already waiting outside with flowers.”
I nodded, cradling my son close. His little face was solemn, 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.
The phone in my dressing gown buzzed. James. Finally.
“Hello! Where are you? Theyre discharging us already,” I rushed out before he could speak. “Im all packed, and the babys ready.”
A muffled noise filled the lineairport announcements, maybeand a womans laughter in the background.
“Emily, hey. Listen, thing is” His voice was oddly bright, detached. “Im not coming.”
My smile vanished.
“What dyou mean? Is something wrong?”
“Nah, all good! JustIm off. Last-minute holiday deal. Couldnt pass it up!”
I stared at my son. He sighed in his sleep.
“Off where? James, we have a son. We were supposed to go home. Together.”
“Relax, its fine. Your mums meeting you, yeah? Or grab a cab. Sent some cash to your account.”
Cash. Like we were an inconvenience he could pay off.
“Are you going alone?”
A pause. In that silence, I heard it allthe 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, boarding now. Love you!”
Click.
I stood in the sterile hospital room, clutching my son. He was warm, real. My old life? A flimsy facade.
The midwife popped her head in. “Dad make it?”
I shook my head, eyes fixed on my boy. “No. Hes on holiday.”
Didnt cry. Just froze inside, hard as ice. I dialled Mum.
“Mum, its me. Can you fetch us?… Yeah, just me. Take us home. To yours. The countryside.”
Dad met us at the hospital gates in his beat-up Land Rover. Silent, he took baby Oliver from me, holding him awkwardly but gently against his broad chest. Not a word the whole drive to the village, just clenched jaw, eyes on the road.
That quiet strength meant more than any speech.
The village smelled of woodsmoke and autumn. Our old house, untouched in a decade, felt aliencreaky floors, a stove to feed, water from the well. My city life, with its delusions, was miles behind.
Weeks blurred into exhaustion and nappies. I was a burden. Mums eyes held quiet pity; Dad withdrew, blaming himself for not warning me about James.
Then he called. Two weeks later. Cheery, refreshed.
“Alright, love! Hows my little champ?” he boomed, as if that hospital call never happened.
“At my parents,” I muttered, wiping Olivers dribble.
“Oh, brilliant! Fresh airll do him good. Ill pop round soon, play with the lad.”
“The lad.” Like a toy he could pick up later.
Weekly calls followed. Hed coo at Oliver on video, then vanish. Pretending this was normal.
Then a “friend” sent a screenshot: James, arms around a woman in a café. Caption: “Best decision I ever made.”
I stared at my chapped hands, the pile of hand-washed nappies. Realisation hit. He wasnt on holiday. Hed moved on.
We were just baggagepaid off with pocket change.
The shame burned. I stopped calling. Waited.
A month later, his tone was all business.
“Emily. Need to sell the flat.”
I sank onto the garden bench. Oliver dozed in his pram.
“Our flat? James, wheres Oliver meant to live?”
“Business, Em. Need the capital. Youll get your cutsay, ten grand?”
Ten grand. Our sons worth.
“Legally, half is ours.”
A cold chuckle. “Whose law? Flats in my mums name. Less hassle, remember? Take me to court. Good luck.”
That was it. Not the cheating. The ice in his voice as he erased Olivers future.
That evening, Dad sat beside me on the porch.
“A real man acts, love. Do right by your boy. Were here.”
Something clicked. No more victim.
Next day, the well pump broke. Dad called a blokeTom, a neighbour I barely recalled. Late thirties, quiet, hands rough from work. Fixed it in minutes, refusing payment.
“Neighbours help neighbours,” he said softly, spotting Oliver. “Hell be a strong one.”
After he left, I dug out the paperwork: marriage certificate, Olivers birth certificate with “James” glaring from it. Dialled a solicitor.
No shaking. Just steel.
“Hello. Im Emily. Need a divorce and child support. My husbands abandoned us.”
The court dragged. James no-showed, sent a slick lawyer who claimed “paternity doubts.”
A cheap shot. I held firm.
“Whatre you playing at?” James spat after the DNA test (positive, obviously). “Trying to ruin me?”
“You chose this.”
The court set child support at a chunk of his income. His lawyer squirmed, but mine exposed his dodgy accounts.
The sum was hefty. His “best decision” soon bolted.
Meanwhile, life settled. Tom dropped byfixing the roof, playing with Oliver. Brought him a carved wooden train once. Oliver, two, hugged it.
“Daddy!” he said, beaming at Tom.
Tom froze. I just smiled.
Oliver had chosen.
We married a year laterquiet, no fuss. Tom adopted Oliver. The sort of man they call “steady as an oak.”
Years passed. We built a proper home. Had a daughter, Lily.
James turned up one evening. Gaunt, shabby.
“Emily came to see my son.”
Tom opened the door.
“Olly!” he called. “Visitor.”
Five-year-old Oliver trotted out, eyeing the stranger.
“Hello.”
“Son Im your”
James stopped. Took in Tom, me, our home. Understood.
“Wrong house,” he muttered, shuffling off.
Ten years on, were on the porch. Eleven-year-old Lily giggles as fifteen-year-old Olivertall, broad, just like Tomteases her with a football.
“Mum, Dad, off to the river!” Oliver shouts.
I lean into Tom. James didnt break me. He shoved me into real life. Heard he went bustchasing flash over substance. Never built anything lasting.
Toms hands rest on my shoulders. Im happy.
Not despite the betrayal. Because of it. Sometimes you need to hit rock bottom to push offand swim toward the light. Toward home.
