**Diary Entry**
*”It’s not his child!”* shrieked my mother-in-law. And then he came back, clutching a ring… Too late.
I’ll never forget that evening. Even now, my stomach knots at the memory. I’d prepared for it like it was a celebration—candles, a light salad, his favourite roasted salmon, white wine. And most importantly, the news. The biggest news of my life.
I was only nineteen then. Living in Manchester with Ethan, renting a modest flat on the outskirts. We’d been together nearly a year. He’d showered me with flowers, called me “his happiness,” promised he’d always be there. I believed him. We’d made plans—young, naive ones, where love feels like all you’ll ever need.
So I told him:
*”Ethan… you’re going to be a dad soon.”*
At first, he froze. Then his face twisted.
*”What? What did you say?”*
*”I’m pregnant,”* I repeated, voice trembling, still hoping for joy in his eyes.
But what came was a shout. Harsh, angry.
*”That’s not my kid! Are you mad? I’m not ready for this. Get out with your pregnancy!”*
He slammed the door. And vanished.
I called—no answer. Soon, my number was blocked. I felt sick, terrified, and worst of all—broken. Because the man I’d dreamed of a future with became a stranger in an instant.
I tried reaching his mother instead. Margaret greeted me at the door of her house in Birmingham. Didn’t even let me inside—stood there in her dressing gown, arms crossed, eyes glaring.
*”Leave,”* she said. *”Don’t play games with my family. That child isn’t Ethan’s! You’re just looking for someone to leech off. My son has his own plans—he’s not responsible for your mistakes.”*
I stood in that hallway feeling my heart shatter. No support, no kindness, not even basic humanity. Just contempt.
Yet even then, I never considered ending the pregnancy. He was already part of me. *Mine.* Innocent. Why should he pay for the cowardice of adults?
Three years passed. I had my son. Named him Oliver. And every morning, when he opens his eyes, smiles at me, I thank fate I didn’t break. Yes, it was hard. Working nights, freelance gigs, hand-washing clothes, living off pasta. But Oliver—he’s my sunshine. My everything.
Then, a few days ago… the doorbell rang. There stood Ethan. The same man, but older, thinner, eyes full of regret.
*”Can we talk?”* he asked quietly.
He told me he’d been in a terrible accident. They’d saved him, but… now he was sterile. Doctors said no children, ever. His fiancée left him over it. And then he remembered me. Remembered Oliver. Remembered how he’d “thrown away his chance.”
*”I want to be here,”* he said. *”Marry you. Take care of you both. Raise Oliver. Fix things.”*
I looked at him and heard the echo of that door slamming shut years ago. Saw his face the night he betrayed me. Remembered holding my belly at night, praying my baby would be healthy. The tears I’d shed when Oliver first said *”Mummy.”*
So I… just closed the door on him. Silently. No shouting, no blame. Because everything had already been said.
I don’t answer his calls now.
Maybe some would say I should forgive him, give him a chance. But I have a son. And he deserves a father who loved him from his first breath—not one who only shows up when there’s no other choice.
Was I right to keep him out of our lives? I think so. Some doors, once closed, should stay that way.
