She gave up her son for a beauty salon. And I—I took him as my own.
Olive’s labour came suddenly—too soon, in the eighth month. The doctors moved swiftly, and within hours, she cradled the fragile body of a tiny daughter in her arms. The girl was placed in an incubator at once, too weak to breathe on her own. Tears blurred Olive’s vision, her heart gripped by a fear she couldn’t shake. She clung to hope, whispering through her sobs, *”My little one will make it… We’ll go home together, I know it…”*
The hospital days dragged like honey dripping from a spoon. Olive barely slept, pacing every hour to the glass where her child lay, watching, praying, forcing herself to believe. One evening, as she stepped from the ward, she overheard two medics talking. Their voices held no sympathy—only exhaustion, only bitterness.
*”That one in room seven…”* muttered a doctor. *”Refuses to breastfeed. Says she’s afraid it’ll ruin her figure.”*
*”Pretty, sure. But what’s going on in that head, God only knows,”* sighed the nurse.
Olive froze. They were talking about the woman who’d given birth a few days before—a boy. She hadn’t just refused to nurse him; she’d signed papers, renouncing him outright. *”Motherhood isn’t in my plans,”* she’d said. *”I want to live for myself.”*
The man who visited the boy—the one who’d once shattered Olive’s heart—came often. He’d stand by the glass, gloved fingers brushing the tiny palm inside. Then, one day, he saw Olive cradling the boy, feeding him, smiling down at him. Something flickered in his eyes—something beyond gratitude. *Hope.*
Meanwhile, the boy’s mother was busy. Fresh manicures, salon blowouts, cosmetic consultations, fittings for her discharge dress. Her mind held no space for a hungry baby’s cry or the thought of sleepless nights. *”I’m too young to be tied down,”* she told her friends over the phone. *”My whole life’s ahead of me.”*
Olive came for the boy every day. She never forgot her daughter, praying every second for the strength to keep fighting. But fate had other plans. Days later, a doctor delivered the blow—her little girl was gone. Olive’s heart collapsed. The world turned black. An emptiness yawned inside her.
She sat on the bed, mute, tearless, arms wrapped around herself as if holding the broken pieces together. Then—a knock at the door. It was *him.* Balloons and flowers in hand. He knelt before her, hands outstretched.
*”Let’s go home,”* he murmured. *”Together.”*
Olive stared, uncomprehending. Gently, he laid the baby in her arms—the boy she’d fed, the one she’d loved as her own. He’d made his choice—he’d adopt the boy alone. No. *Not* alone. With Olive. Because she alone had been a mother to him.
They left the hospital side by side. Olive wasn’t alone now. A man beside her, a child in her arms. Grief still ached—but so did hope.
As for *her*—Natalie, the man’s ex-wife—she stood by the window in her pristine dress. When she saw him greet Olive instead, saw the flowers handed to another woman, she paled. At first, she didn’t understand. Then she ran shouting down the corridor—
*”What the hell is this?! Where’s my husband?! Where’s my SON?!”*
At the nurses’ station, the same nurse who’d watched her indifference for days met her with a weary stare.
*”Calm down, Natalie,”* she said. *”It’s all sorted. Now you can focus on yourself—your looks, your life. Your son has a real mother now.”*
Olive and the boy vanished from the hospital. No one saw them again. They moved to another town. Started fresh. A clean slate, built on love.
And Natalie? She stood frozen at the threshold. Perfect dress. Perfect hair. No one left to see it.
