**Diary Entry**
Olive went into labour unexpectedly—premature, in her eighth month. The doctors acted swiftly, and within hours, she cradled the fragile body of her tiny daughter. The baby was rushed into an incubator; she was too weak to breathe on her own. Tears glistened in Olive’s eyes, and an unshakable dread settled in her chest. She whispered through sobs, “My little one will pull through… We’ll go home together, I know it…”
Days in the hospital dragged. Olive barely slept, pacing hourly to the glass partition where her child lay, watching, praying, willing herself to believe. One evening, stepping from her room, she overheard two medics talking. Their voices held no pity—just exhaustion and reproach.
“The one in Ward Seven,” a doctor muttered. “Refuses to breastfeed. Says she’s afraid it’ll ruin her figure.”
“Pretty, sure. But what’s going on in her head?” sighed the nurse.
Olive stiffened. They meant the woman who’d given birth to a boy days earlier—a woman who’d not only refused to nurse him but signed adoption papers. “Motherhood wasn’t part of the plan,” she’d said. “I want to live for myself.”
The man who visited the hospital shattered Olive’s heart. He came daily, standing at the incubator, tracing the boy’s tiny fingers through sterile gloves. When he saw Olive cradling the infant, feeding him, smiling down at him—something ignited in his eyes. More than gratitude. Hope.
Meanwhile, the boy’s mother was preoccupied: manicures, blowouts, cosmetic appointments, and a lavish dress for her discharge. Her mind held no room for a hungry cry or sleepless nights. “I’m too young to be tied down,” she told friends over the phone. “My whole life’s ahead of me.”
Olive returned to the boy every day, never forgetting her own daughter, praying for her strength. But fate had other plans. Days later, the doctor delivered the blow: her little girl was gone. Olive’s world collapsed. She sat hollow-eyed on the bed, clutching her shoulders as if holding herself together.
Then, a knock. The man stood there, holding balloons and flowers. He knelt before her, hands outstretched. “Let’s go home,” he said softly. “Together.”
Olive froze, uncomprehending. Gently, he placed the baby in her arms—the boy she’d fed, soothed, loved as her own. He’d decided to adopt his son alone—but not alone. With Olive. Because she’d become the child’s true mother in every way that mattered.
They left the hospital side by side. Olive wasn’t empty-handed anymore. A man walked beside her. A child nestled in her arms. Grief and hope warred in her heart.
As for the other woman—Natalie, the man’s ex-wife—she stood by the window in her showy dress. When she saw him greet Olive instead of her, the flowers and balloons meant for another, she paled. Then, realisation struck. She bolted down the corridor, shrieking, “What is this?! Where’s my husband? My son?!”
The same nurse who’d witnessed her indifference met her at reception. “Calm down, Natalie,” she said wearily. “It’s done. Now you’re free to focus on yourself. That boy has a real mother now.”
Olive and the child vanished. They moved to another town, starting fresh—with love, with trust.
And Natalie? She remained on the threshold. Perfect dress. Perfect hair. And utterly alone.
**Lesson:** Love isn’t blood. It’s who stays when walking away would be easier.
