“He’s not our child!” exclaimed Emma. But life, as it often does, had other plans.
Emma stood by the stove, irritatedly stirring pasta in a pot. Her eyes flashed like lightning, and her voice trembled with barely restrained frustration.
“Alex, this can’t go on forever!” she blurted. “He isn’t even ours! Honestly, what on earth were we thinking?”
Alexander slumped onto a stool with a heavy sigh, like a man condemned to eternal laundry duty.
“I know, love… But what can we do? Toss him out on the street? You know how Mum gets—”
“Oh, don’t get me started on your mother!” Emma snapped. “She’s the reason we’re in this mess to begin with!”
Alex just shook his head. He was out of ideas. It had all started when his sister, Alice, divorced her philandering husband. Their mother, Margaret, had been the first to insist—apparently, a disloyal son-in-law was a stain on the family honour. Alice, already pregnant, was left on her own. She gave birth to little Oliver, and the ex-husband never showed—not at the hospital, not ever.
At first, Alice managed. Then, quite suddenly, she “needed a break.” She wanted to focus on her love life, she said. Dates piled up, and Oliver became an inconvenience. So Margaret “parked” him with Alex and Emma—”just for two weeks!” After all, he was family, and they didn’t have kids of their own yet. How much trouble could he be?
Two weeks turned into three months. Emma was stunned. Working from home as a freelancer, she was the one stuck babysitting. Alice popped by less and less, dropping in for quick kisses on Oliver’s head before dashing off to her new man—a “serious businessman” from another city who couldn’t be bothered with someone else’s child.
Emma bit her tongue at first. Oliver, though not hers, was sweet and affectionate. She pitied him. He’d wait by the window for his mum, who rarely came.
One evening, exhausted, Emma slumped at the kitchen table and whispered,
“Alex, he’s getting cheeky… Today he told me I’m not his mum and can’t tell him what to do. And… I’m pregnant.”
“Wait, what?!” Alex gaped.
“Yes, Alex. The one thing we’ve waited for… and now I can’t handle this. We’ll have our own child soon. I can’t do it all alone.”
Two weeks later, when the test showed a single stripe, Emma wept. It had all been for nothing. Meanwhile, Alex drove Oliver back to his mother, Margaret, who’d just retired and insisted she could manage.
But Oliver was old enough to understand no one really wanted him. Margaret struggled; he started fights at school, his grades tanked. Then came the tearful plea:
“Emma, darling, he adores you… He’s only calm with you. Please, just let him stay a little while longer?”
“And Alice?”
“Alice?” Margaret scoffed. “She’s only his mother on paper. She told me she regrets having him. Her new husband doesn’t want a stepson—they’re already on the brink of divorce!”
Emma, gritting her teeth, agreed. Oliver came back. Slowly, he smiled again. His marks improved. They chatted on the school run, shared inside jokes, had their little secrets. Then, one day, he hugged her tight and whispered,
“You’re my real mum. I love you. I want to stay with you and Uncle Alex forever.”
Emma burst into tears. She realised, with a sudden ache, how much she loved this boy—as if he’d been hers all along.
Years passed. Alice divorced. Oliver stayed for good. They formalised custody, then adoption.
One day, as Emma stood by the window, Oliver rushed over and pressed his ear to her stomach.
“Mum, promise I’ll have a little brother? I’ll protect him!”
Emma held her breath—then smiled. This time? Two stripes. And happiness. The real kind.
