Long ago, in a quiet corner of London, a tale unfolded that would linger in memory. Evelyn’s labour began unexpectedly—too soon, in the eighth month. The physicians acted swiftly, and within hours, she cradled the fragile form of her tiny daughter. The babe was placed at once in an incubator, too weak to breathe on her own. Tears welled in Evelyn’s eyes, her heart clenched with a fear she could not shake. She whispered through her weeping, “My little one will pull through… We shall go home together, I know it…”
The days in hospital crept by. Evelyn scarcely slept, stealing to the glass partition each hour to gaze at her child, praying, willing herself to believe. One evening, as she stepped from the ward, she overheard two nurses speaking. Their voices held no pity—only weariness and a quiet scorn.
“The one in Ward Seven,” muttered the first. “Refuses to feed the babe. Says she’ll ruin her figure.”
“Pretty enough, I grant you,” sighed the other. “But heaven knows what goes on in her head.”
Evelyn froze. They spoke of a woman who’d borne a son days prior—a woman who’d not only refused to nurse him but had signed him away outright. “Motherhood was never in my plans,” she’d declared. “I mean to live for myself.”
The man who visited the hospital broke Evelyn’s heart. He came daily to stand by the glass, tracing his son’s tiny fingers through sterile gloves. When he saw Evelyn gently rocking the boy, feeding him, smiling down at him, something kindled in his eyes—more than gratitude. Hope.
The boy’s mother, meanwhile, was occupied with herself. Fresh manicures, salon appointments, fittings for her discharge gown. The cries of a hungry child held no place in her thoughts, nor the weary nights of parenthood. “I’m far too young to be tied down,” she told her friends over the telephone. “My life’s only just begun.”
Evelyn came to the boy each day, though her own daughter’s frail grip on life never left her mind. Yet fate was cruel. Days later, the physician delivered the blow—the little girl had slipped away. Evelyn’s world went black. Her chest hollow.
She sat upon the bed, numb, unable to speak or weep, arms wrapped tight about herself as if to hold the fragments of her heart together. Then—a knock at the door. It was him, the father, flowers and balloons in hand. He knelt before her, hands outstretched.
“Come home,” he said softly. “With me.”
Evelyn was lost. Then he placed the infant in her arms—the boy she’d fed, the boy she’d cherished as her own. The man had made his choice. He would raise his son alone—but not alone. With Evelyn. For she alone had been a mother to the child.
That day, they left the hospital together. Evelyn was not alone. At her side stood the man, in her arms the child. Her heart ached with loss, yet glimmered with hope.
As for the other—Margaret, the man’s former wife—she stood by the window in her fine discharge gown. When she saw him welcome not her, but Evelyn, saw the flowers and balloons bestowed upon another, her face drained of colour. For a moment, she did not understand. Then she flew down the corridor in a fury.
“What is this?” she shrieked. “Where is my husband? Where is my son?”
At the desk, the same nurse who’d witnessed her indifference all those days met her with weary eyes.
“Calm yourself, Margaret,” she said. “All is settled. You’re free now—free to tend to your looks in peace. Your son has a proper mother at last.”
Evelyn and the boy vanished from the hospital. None saw them again. They removed to a new town, began anew. A fresh start, built on love.
And Margaret? She remained on the threshold, discharge papers in hand, clad in her fine gown, her hair perfect—and utterly alone.
