In a time not so long past, there lived a woman named Eleanor. Her 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 draw breath on her own. Tears welled in Eleanor’s eyes, and her heart was heavy with a dread she could not shake. Still, she whispered through her weeping, “My little one will pull through… We shall go home together, I know it…”
The days in the hospital dragged. Eleanor scarcely slept, rising each hour to press her hand against the glass where her child lay, watching, praying, willing herself to hope. One evening, as she stepped from her chamber, she overheard two medical attendants speaking. Their voices held no pity—only weariness and bitterness.
“That one in the seventh ward,” muttered a physician. “Refuses to nurse the babe. Says she fears it will ruin her figure.”
“Pretty enough,” sighed the nurse. “But what passes for sense in that head, I couldn’t say.”
Eleanor’s ears pricked. They spoke of a woman who had borne a son days before—one who had not only refused to feed him but had signed papers renouncing him. “Motherhood was never in my plans,” she had said. “I mean to live for myself.”
The man who visited the hospital was the very one who had shattered Eleanor’s heart. He came daily to stand by the glass, touching his son’s tiny palm through gloved hands. When he saw Eleanor gently rocking the boy in her arms, feeding him, smiling down at him, something kindled in his eyes—something deeper than gratitude. Hope.
The boy’s mother, meanwhile, was occupied with herself. Fresh manicures, new coiffures, appointments with the beautician, fittings for her going-home gown. In her mind, there was no room for a hungry infant’s cry or the thought of sleepless nights. “I’m far too young to be tied down,” she told her friends over the telephone. “My whole life lies ahead of me.”
Eleanor came to the boy each day, never forgetting her own daughter, praying every moment that the little one would find the strength to live. But alas… After a few days, the physician delivered grievous news: the girl had passed. Eleanor’s heart clenched. The world dimmed. Her chest was a hollow ache.
She sat upon the bed, unable to speak, unable to weep, arms wrapped about herself as though to gather the shards of her broken heart. Then—a knock at the door. It was him, the very man, flowers and balloons in hand. He knelt before her and reached out.
“Come home,” he said softly. “With me.”
Eleanor was bewildered. Then, carefully, he placed the babe in her arms—the very boy she had fed, the one to whom she had grown so tenderly attached. The man had made his choice: he would raise his son alone. But not alone. With Eleanor. For she alone had become the child’s true mother. She alone had loved him as her own.
That day, they left the hospital together. Eleanor was not alone. The man walked beside her, the child in her arms, her heart torn between sorrow and a glimmer of hope.
As for the other—Miranda, the man’s former wife—she stood by the window in her fine gown, watching as another woman was met with flowers and balloons. At first, she did not understand. Then she ran down the corridor, shrieking,
“What is this? Where is my husband? Where is my son?”
The same weary nurse who had witnessed her indifference all these days approached. “Calm yourself, Miranda,” she said. “All is well. Now you may devote yourself to your looks, as you wished. Your son has a true mother now.”
Eleanor and the boy vanished from the hospital. None saw them again. They moved to another town, began anew—a clean slate, built on love and trust.
And Miranda? She remained at the threshold, clutching her discharge papers, her gown, her perfect coiffure… and nothing else.
