“Alright, Mum, ready to meet Dad?” the nurse smiled as she handed me a tightly wrapped bundle. “Lookeveryones already waiting outside with flowers.”
I nodded, holding my son close. His little face was serious, almost scowling. My boy. Our boyHarrys and mine. I moved to the window, searching for my husbands familiar car, but it wasnt there. Only strangers smiling faces, balloons floating skyward, and bouquets like fluffy clouds.
The phone in my dressing gown pocket buzzed. Harry. Finally.
“Hello? Where are you? Theyre discharging us now,” I said before he could speak. “Im dressed, and the babys ready.”
A noise like an airport hum filled the line, followed by a womans laughter in the background.
“Emily, hi. Listen, thing is” His voice was oddly cheerful, distant. “Im not coming.”
My smile vanished.
“What do you mean? Has something happened?”
“No, alls fine! JustIm off on holiday. Spontaneous deal, couldnt pass it up.”
I looked down at my son. He sighed in his sleep.
“Holiday? Harry, we have a son. We were supposed to go home. All three of us.”
“Dont make a fuss. Your mums coming, right? Or take a cab. Ive sent money to your account.”
Money. Like we were an inconvenience he could pay off.
“Are you going alone?”
He hesitated. That pause told me everythingthe late-night “meetings,” the “urgent trips.” That web of lies Id ignored.
“Emily, dont start, yeah? I just need a break. Ive the right.”
“You do,” I said flatly, my breath shallow. “Of course.”
“Brilliant! Right, boarding now. Kisses!”
The call ended.
I stood in the hospital room, staring at my son. Warm, real, alive. My old life had crumbled like a cheap set.
The nurse peeked in. “Well? Dad made it?”
I shook my head, eyes fixed on my boy. “No. Our dad went on holiday.”
I didnt cry. Something inside hardened, cold as a stone in frozen water. I dialled my mother.
“Mum, can you fetch me? Yes, alone. Take us home. To yours. The countryside.”
Dad met us at the hospital gates in his old Land Rover. Wordlessly, he took little Oliver from me, cradling him carefully against his broad chest. He said nothing the whole drive, just gripped the wheel, his weathered face tense.
That quiet strength meant more than words.
The village smelled of woodsmoke and damp earth. Our old house, untouched for a decade, felt aliencreaky floorboards, a stove needing morning fuel, water from the well. My city life, with its comforts and illusions, was miles behind.
The first weeks blurredOlivers cries, my exhaustion. I was a burden. Mum sighed when she looked at me; Dad withdrew, silent disapproval in his eyes. He didnt blame me for returning, but for choosing Harry, ignoring his warnings.
Then he called. Two weeks later. Bright-voiced, refreshed.
“Hi, love! Hows my little champ?” he boomed, as if that hospital call never happened.
“At my parents,” I said shortly, wiping Olivers bib.
“Ah, goodfresh air, nature. Ill pop by soon, play with the lad.”
The lad. Like a toy to pick up when convenient.
He called weekly, cooing at Oliver on video before rushing off. As if wed agreed to this. As if he hadnt abandoned us.
Then a “friend” sent a screenshotHarry at a café, arms around a woman. The caption: “Best decision ever.”
I studied my chipped nails, the pile of laundry in cold water. He wasnt on holiday. Hed moved on.
We were just obstacles, paid off with scraps.
The humiliation burned.
I stopped calling. Waited.
A month later, his tone was brisk.
“Emily, we need to talk. Selling the flat.”
I sank onto the porch bench. Oliver slept in his pram.
“Our flat? Harry, where do we go?”
“Business, Em. Need the capital. Youll get your sharethirty grand should cover it.”
Thirty grand. His sons worth.
“By law, half is ours.”
He laughed coldly. “Whose law? Flats in Mums name. No hassle. You agreed. Good luck.”
The final blow. Not the cheatingthe icy dismissal.
That evening, Dad sat beside me.
“A man isnt the one who talks, Emily. Hes the one who does. You fight for your boy. Were here.”
Enough.
Next day, the well pump broke. Dad called a neighbourThomas, mid-thirties, quiet, hands rough from work. Fixed it in minutes, refusing payment.
“Neighbours help neighbours,” he said, glancing at Oliver. “Strong little lad.”
After he left, I dug out the papersmarriage certificate, Olivers birth record. Called a solicitor.
No more shaking.
“Hello. Im Emily. I need a divorce and child support.”
The case dragged. Harry no-showed, sent a slick lawyer who challenged paternity.
A cheap shot. I held firm.
“You mad?” Harry spat post-DNA test. “Bleeding me dry?”
“You chose this.”
The test proved paternity. The court set support at a quarter of his income. His lawyer lied about earnings, but mine exposed the truth.
The sum was substantialenough that his “best decision” vanished.
Meanwhile, life took shape. Thomas visited oftenfixing the roof, playing with Oliver. One day, he brought a carved wooden train. Oliver hugged it tight.
“Daddy!” he said, holding it up.
Thomas froze. I just smiled.
We married a year later, quietly. Thomas adopted Oliver. The kind of man they call “steady as a rock.”
Years passed. We built a new home. Had a daughter.
Harry turned up one autumn, gaunt, in a shabby coat.
“Emily came to see my son.”
Thomas opened the door. “Oliver! Visitor.”
Five-year-old Oliver peered at the stranger.
“Hello.”
“Son Im your”
Harry stopped. Took in Thomas, me, the sturdy house. Too late.
“Wrong address,” he muttered, walking away.
Ten years on, we sat on the porch. Eleven-year-old Lily giggled as fifteen-year-old Olivertall, broadkept the ball from her.
“Mum, Dad, off to the river!” Oliver called.
I leaned into Thomas. Harrys betrayal didnt break meit shoved me into reality. Last I heard, hed gone bankrupt.
I looked at Thomass strong hands. Im happy.
That happiness began because of the betrayal. Sometimes, you must get lost to find the right path.
