The air in the maternity ward was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the muffled hum of early morning. A striking obstetrician, her starched white cap perched atop neat blonde hair, strode in with the crisp efficiency of someone who’d done this a thousand times.
“Good morning, mums. How are we all today?” Her voice was brisk but warm as she approached the bed nearest the door, where a young mother lay curled toward the wall.
“Edwards, I know you’re not asleep. Turn onto your back. I need to check your abdomen.” The command left no room for argument.
With a sigh, the girl complied. Beside her, Kate recognised her instantly—they’d laboured through the night together. The doctor peeled back the thin hospital blanket, lifted the worn gown, and pressed firm fingers against the young woman’s stomach.
“Perfect. They’ll bring your son for feeding soon. Ready?” She straightened, tucking the blanket back with practised hands.
The girl’s eyes flew open, wide with panic.
“I don’t want to feed him,” she whispered, voice cracking.
The doctor paused. “And why’s that?”
“Please, don’t bring him. I can’t.”
A frown creased the doctor’s brow. “You don’t want to see your baby? You’re refusing him?”
The girl nodded, lips pressed tight. The doctor studied her a moment, then sighed. “Right. I’ll finish my rounds, then we’ll talk. Think it over.” She turned sharply and moved to Kate’s bed.
“How are you, love? Second baby, yes? Ready for feeding time?”
“Of course,” Kate answered quickly.
The doctor hesitated, glancing back at Edwards, who had turned to the wall again. Then, with a quiet sigh, she left.
The moment the door clicked shut, Kate swung her legs over the bed. “What’s your name?” Silence. “We were in labour together. You went just before me. Why don’t you want to see your son?”
Nothing.
“My boy’s five now,” Kate mused, then suddenly asked, “Did his father leave you? Was it too late for—? You think you can’t raise him alone? They say if heaven gives a child, it’ll provide.” She spoke to the rigid curve of the girl’s back.
“Your baby’ll go straight to foster care. He’ll never know your warmth, your smell. Strangers will raise him. He’ll search every woman’s face, wondering if she’s his mum. But they’ll come and go—they’ve their own kids. And yours will cry for you. Then it’s the care home. He’ll spend his life waiting. You think you’ll forget? Cross him out? One day, you’ll regret it. And if someone adopts him, another woman will be his mother—”
“Stop!” The girl’s voice was raw. “You don’t know anything about me!”
“True,” Kate agreed. “But no one gives up a child lightly, not after labour, not after hearing that first cry. And if he left you? Good riddance. Weak men don’t love their sons either. You can be a single mother with a husband, believe me.”
She launched into her story—married at uni, exams taken with a swollen belly, the premature birth. She’d thought she’d pleased her husband. Men wanted sons, didn’t they? But fatherhood never took root in him. And she? A foolish, clueless mother.
The hand-me-downs from his sister’s daughter—pink jumpers, scuffed prams. “We weren’t paupers, yet we dressed like beggars.” Even when his wages improved, it was nephews’ cast-offs. Her parents helped, but children grow fast. His retort? “Buy him nice things when you work.” As if the boy were hers alone.
She’d spun like a top—feeding, cooking, rushing when he cried. Her own clothes strained at the seams; her confidence frayed. “He took a loan for a flash car while I wore rags.” The other mums boasted of diamond rings, fur coats. She made excuses—students, hard times.
Then the mistress. “Look at you,” he’d sneered. She left, clutching her son. He barely fought for them. Moved his lover in the next day.
The divorce. His empty promises—”Don’t file for maintenance, I’ll give more.” She didn’t believe him.
Then Daniel—older, kind. He drove her and Jamie to appointments. Courted her patiently. Married two years later. Jamie adored him. A man who ached for a child of his own.
Her ex-husband’s sudden demand for custody when she fell pregnant. Threats, court. Then—Jamie returned. “Too expensive,” her ex admitted.
“See? Better no husband than a bad one.” Kate leaned forward. “First marriages often fail. We’re young, reckless. But you’re pretty, clever. It’ll work out. I’ve baby clothes—Jamie outgrew them faster than he wore them out. And you’ve milk. The rest? We’ll manage.”
Edwards—no, *Liza*—had turned to face her. “Mum said to leave him here,” she murmured.
“Rubbish. She’ll hold him once and melt. Trust me.”
The door creaked open. A nurse carried a tiny bundle. “Here’s your girl. Know how to latch her?”
Kate cradled the infant, heart swelling at the crumpled face.
“Will you bring my son?” Liza’s voice was small.
The nurse blinked. “You’re Edwards? Right. Back in a tick.”
Kate smiled.
“I’m Liza. You’re Kate, yeah? Will you help? I’m terrified.”
Minutes later, her son was in her arms, mouth working hungrily at her breast. They chatted softly, marveling at their babies.
Discharged together. Liza’s mum waited; Kate’s family—parents, Daniel, Jamie—crowded the lobby. Numbers exchanged.
They became park companions, Kate dispensing advice. Shared birthday parties. Liza’s boyfriend returned; they wed.
“See? You nearly threw it all away.”
Marriage is a lottery. You never know the man you’ve picked. It takes years—a lifetime, sometimes—to learn the truth.
May every child know a mother’s and father’s love.
