“He’s not the father!” shrieked the mother-in-law. And then he returned with a ring in his hand… Too late.
I shall never forget that evening. Even now, the memory sets my nerves trembling. I had prepared for it as though for a celebration—candles, a light salad, his favourite baked salmon, a bottle of white wine. And above all, the news. The most important news of my life.
I was but nineteen then, living in Bradford with Ben in a modest flat on the outskirts. We had been courting nearly a year. He showered me with flowers, called me “his joy,” vowed he would stand by me always. I believed him. We made plans—those youthful, foolish plans where love seems all one needs.
And so I told him:
“Ben… you’re going to be a father.”
At first, he froze. Then his face twisted.
“What? What did you say?”
“I’m with child,” I repeated, my voice unsteady, still hoping for gladness in his eyes.
But what came was a shout. Harsh, cruel.
“That’s not my child! Have you lost your wits? I’m not ready for this. Get out with your pregnancy!”
He slammed the door. And was gone.
I called—he would not answer. Soon, my number was blocked. I felt ill—in body, in spirit, in fear. But worst of all was the pain. The man with whom I’d dreamt of a future had become a stranger in an instant.
I tried to reach his mother. Margaret met me at the door of her home in Leeds. She did not even let me in—just stood there in her dressing gown, arms crossed, eyes burning.
“Leave,” she said. “Don’t you dare meddle with my family. That child isn’t Ben’s! You’re just looking for someone to cling to. My son has other plans—he’s not bound to pay for your mistakes!”
I stood in that hallway and felt my heart shatter. No kindness, no faith, no decency. Only scorn.
Yet even then, I never once thought to rid myself of the child. He was already within me. He was mine. Pure, innocent. Why should he suffer for the cowardice of grown folk?
Three years passed. I bore a son. Named him William. And every morning when he wakes, looks at me, and smiles, I thank fate I did not break. Aye, it was hard. I worked nights, took odd jobs, washed clothes by hand, lived on bread and tinned soup. But Will is my sunshine. My everything.
And then, a few days ago… a knock came at the door. There stood Ben. The very same. Older, thinner, his eyes weary.
“May we talk?” he asked softly.
He told me of a terrible crash. They’d pulled him from the wreck, but… now he was barren. The doctors said—no children, not ever. His betrothed left him, unable to bear it. And then he remembered me. Remembered our son. Remembered how he’d “let his chance slip away.”
“I want to make things right,” he said. “To marry you. To care for you both. To raise William. To mend what I broke.”
I looked at him and heard, deep inside, the echo of that door he’d once slammed shut. I saw his face again—that night, when he betrayed me. I remembered clutching my belly in the dark, praying my babe would be born whole. Weeping in silence when Will first said “Mama.” And I simply… closed the door. Without a word. No shouts, no reproaches. For all had been said long ago.
I do not answer his calls now.
Some might say I ought to forgive. To grant him a chance. But I have a son. And he deserves a father who loved him from his first breath. Not one who comes only when all other doors are closed.
What say you—did I do right, keeping him from our lives?
