Well, Mum, ready to meet Dad? the nurse beamed as she passed me a snugly wrapped bundle. Lookeverys already gathered outside with flowers.
I nodded, holding my son close. His tiny face was solemn, almost scowling. My boy. Our boyJames and mine. I peered out the window, searching for my husbands familiar car, but it wasnt there. Just strangers grinning, balloons drifting into the sky, and bouquets fluffy as clouds.
The phone in my dressing gown buzzed. James. Finally.
Hello! Where are you? Theyre discharging us already, I blurted before he could speak. Im dressed, and the babys ready.
The line crackled with the bustle of an airport, and a womans laugh echoed in the background.
Emily, hi. Listen, thing is His voice was breezy, detached. Im not coming.
My smile vanished.
What? Why? Is something wrong?
No, all good! Just fancied a last-minute holiday. Couldnt pass it up, could I?
I glanced at my son. He sighed in his sleep.
A holiday? James, we have a son. Were supposed to go home. Together.
Relax, its fine. Your mums meeting you, yeah? Or take a cab. Ive transferred cash to your account.
Cash. As if we were a messy inconvenience to be paid off.
Are you going alone?
He paused. In that silence, I heard it allthe late work dinners, the urgent trips. The lies Id wilfully ignored.
Emily, dont start. Im knackered, need a break. Ive earned it.
You have, I said flatly, the air suddenly thin in my lungs. Course you have.
Brilliant! he chirped. Right, boarding. Cheers!
The line died.
I stood in the sterile hospital room, staring at my son. So real, so warm. And just like that, my old life crumbled like a stage prop.
The nurse popped her head in.
All right? Dad here?
I shook my head slowly, eyes fixed on my boy.
No. Dads on holiday.
I didnt cry. Something inside simply hardened, cold as a pebble in a frozen pond. I dialled my mother.
Mum, hi. Can you fetch me? Yes, alone. Take us home. To yours. The countryside.
Dad met us at the hospital gates in his rusted Land Rover. Wordlessly, he took little George from me, cradling him awkwardly but gently against his broad chest. He didnt speak the entire drive, just gripped the wheel, his weathered face tense.
That quiet strength meant more than any speech.
The village welcomed us with woodsmoke and damp earth. Our old houseunlived in for a decadefelt alien. Creaky floorboards, a hearth that needed stoking, water drawn from the well. My city life, with its delusions and comforts, was miles away.
The first weeks blurred into sleepless nights and nappies. I felt useless. Mum sighed when she looked at me, her eyes heavy with pity. Dad withdrew, and I knew he blamed menot for coming home, but for choosing James despite his warnings.
Then James called. Two weeks later. Bright and breezy, as if nothing had happened.
Hiya, love! Hows my little champ? he boomed, like our last chat had been about the weather.
Were at my parents, I muttered, wiping Georges dribble.
Ah, grand! Fresh air, good for him. Ill pop round soon, give the lad a play.
The lad. As if his son were a toy to be picked up when convenient.
He rang weekly after that, cooing at George over video before hurriedly hanging up. He behaved as if wed mutually agreed to live apart. As if he hadnt abandoned us.
Then a city friend sent a screenshot: James, arms around a woman in a caféthe same laugh from the phone. The caption: Best decision I ever made.
I stared at my chapped hands, the pile of hand-washed nappies. Then I understood. He wasnt on holiday. Hed moved on.
We were just a nuisance, bought off with pocket change to ease his conscience.
The screen darkened, but the image burned. Humiliation scalded my cheeks, choked my throat.
I stopped calling. I waited.
A month later, James rang, all business.
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, where are we supposed to live?
Listen, its business. Need the capital. 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 chuckled, cold.
What law? Flats in Mums name, remember? Less hassle. You agreed. Good luck proving otherwise.
That was it. Not the cheating. The icy tone as he erased his sons security.
That evening, Dad sat beside me on the porch.
A real man, he said finally, isnt the one who talks. Its the one who acts. Do right by your boy. Were here.
Something shifted. No more victim.
The next day, the well pump broke. Dad called a neighbourTom, a quiet bloke from down the lane, with rough hands and a knack for fixes. He had it sorted in minutes, refusing payment.
Neighbours help neighbours, he said, wiping his hands. Spotting George, he smiled faintly. Sturdy little chap.
When he left, I dug out the paperwork: marriage certificate, birth certificateJames name bold under Father. I rang a solicitor.
My voice didnt waver.
Hello. Id like to file for divorce and child support. My husband wont provide for his son.
The court battle dragged. James skipped the first hearing, sending a slick lawyer who hinted at paternity doubts.
A cheap shot. I clenched my fists tighter.
Whats your game? James spat after the DNA test order. Bleeding me dry?
You chose this, I said.
The test confirmed he was Georges father. The court set support at a quarter of his income. His lawyer claimed his business was broke, but my solicitor uncovered his dodgy accounts.
The sum was heftyenough to make his best decision vanish overnight.
Meanwhile, life in the village settled. Tom visited oftenfixing the roof, playing with George. One day, he brought a carved wooden train. George, now two, hugged it.
Daddy! he said, holding it up to Tom.
Tom froze, glancing at me. I just smiled. My son had chosen his father.
We married a year laterno fuss, no frills. Tom adopted George, gave him his name. He was the sort they mean by solid as an oak.
Years passed. We built a bigger house. Had a daughter.
James turned up one autumn, gaunt in a shabby coat.
Emily, 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 home. Realised he was too late.
Wrong house, he muttered, shuffling away.
Ten years on, we sat on the porch. Eleven-year-old Lily giggled as fifteen-year-old Georgetall, broad, the spitting image of Tom in spiritdangled a ball just out of reach.
Mum, Dad, were off to the river! George called.
I leaned into Tom. James betrayal didnt break me. It shoved me from a farce into something real. I heard he went busthis chase for fast cash and flashy living ending in ruin. He never learned to build anything lasting.
I studied Toms calloused hands on my shoulders. Im happy.
And that happiness began not despite James, but because of him. Sometimes, to find the right path, you must first lose your waythen push off the bottom, up toward the light. Toward a life thats real.
