“You’re just an old woman nowour son needs a young mother, not a grandmother! I’m leaving, and I’m taking the child with me!” snarled her husband.
That evenings events were something Rita could never have imagined, even in her wildest dreams. Her husband, Simon, stood before her with an icy expression, his words slicing through the quiet of their flat like thunder on a clear day. Clutched tightly in her arms was their little boy, Tobya warm, fragile bundle whose breath was the light in her darkest moments. Her heart clenched as she felt his small body tense, as though he somehow understood, without words, that something terrible was happening.
Toby wasnt just any child. He was a miracle. The one she had prayed for through years of longing. At thirty-seven, she had nearly given up on motherhood, resigned to the idea that happiness had slipped through her fingers. Years of hope, disappointment, and thenfinallythat long-awaited positive test. The doctors had warned her age wasnt on her side, but she refused to surrender. When Simon found out about the pregnancy, his eyes sparkled just like they had on their wedding day. He showered her with love, care, luxury. He swore their family would finally be complete, just like in those old films he loved. Evening walks, organic food, the best doctors, fortnightly scanshe recorded every kick, every flutter. He was happy. Or so it seemed.
The birth was difficult, but successful. On the day they left the hospital, Simon was distant, almost cold. No tears, no embracesjust a curt, “Lets go.” Rita chalked it up to exhaustion, stress. But deep down, a warning bell chimed. Still, things soon returned to normal. He spent hours by Tobys cot, learning to hold him, helping with night feeds. She convinced herself everything was fine. Just a phase.
Nine months passed. Toby grew stronger, laughing, babbling. Rita gradually introduced solid foods but kept breastfeedingas the doctor advised, as she and Toby preferred. Then, one evening, Simon came home and snapped, “Enough. Time to wean him. Hes a boy, not a girl! Still nursing at nearly two? Its not right!”
Rita flinched. She hadnt heard that harsh tone in years. But it was only the beginning.
Each day, he grew colder. His gaze distant, his words clipped. No gifts, no flowerseven a simple “thank you” for dinner became rare. Then came the blow.
“Youre old,” he said, shrugging off his jacket without looking at her. “Face it. Toby needs a young, lively mother, not a woman who looks like his grandmother. Im leaving. And Im taking our son. Theres another womanshell be his real mother. You? Youve served your purpose: carried him, birthed him. So Ill let you keep the flat. Well divorce quietly, no drama. I wont humiliate you. But I wont stay either.”
Rita stood frozen. Her heart hammered. This couldnt be real. Was he joking? Nohis eyes held no mockery. Just ice. Contempt.
“Simon are you serious?” she whispered, voice trembling. “Is this a joke? Its not April Fools. Do you even hear yourself?”
“Im not joking,” he replied coldly. “Ive been with her for months. Shes prettier, smarter, younger. And most importantlyshe wants to be a mother. You? You cant even work. When was the last time you left the house without Toby? When did you last think about yourself?”
His words cut like knives. Yes, she hadnt worked in ages. Yes, shed devoted herself to their family. But was that a crime? A reason to betray her?
“You wont take him,” she forced out, the ground swaying beneath her.
“Thats not up for debate,” he shot back. “If you fight me, Ill throw you out. Where will you go? To your sister, struggling to feed her own kids? To your mum, barely scraping by? I can give Toby everything: the best schools, clubs, holidays, security. You? You cant even guarantee his next meal.”
He spoke with the certainty of a man who knew his power. And he was right. Simon worked in the courts. He had connections. He knew how the system workedand he wasnt afraid to use it.
That night, Rita didnt sleep. She sat by Tobys cot, stroking his hair, whispering sweet nothings, terrified that if she blinked, shed wake to an empty flat. But Simon didnt leavenot yet. He appeared less often, but he stayed. A fragile hope lingered.
Then, one day, the police knocked.
“Youre under arrest for alleged child neglect and alcohol abuse,” one officer stated flatly.
Rita stared in horror. It was a farce. She didnt drink. She adored her son. But Simon stood behind them, stone-faced. He didnt look at her. Just nodded.
“Toby stays with me,” he said. “Ill keep him safe.”
They took her away. Three days in a cell. No lawyer. No explanation. No contact. When they finally released her, the flat was empty. Just dust and the echo of betrayal.
Simon visited that evening, smug as ever.
“I showed you whos in charge,” he said. “Try anythingIll have you locked up for good.”
“Youre monstrous,” Rita whispered, her insides turning to ice. “You think some stranger can love Toby like I do? She doesnt know his scent, his first cry, the weight of him in her arms when he was born. She cant”
“She already loves him,” he interrupted. “She calls him her son. Cries when he cries. You? Youre just a washed-up old woman.”
He slammed the door. Rita slid to the floor, knees drawn to her chest, crying until the tears ran dry. Only emptiness remained. And one thought: *I have to fight. For him. For my boy.*
She called her sister, who handed the phone to her husbanda man in law enforcement.
“Rita Im sorry,” he said. “With his connections, youre outmatched alone. But if you want to fight, you need someone just as powerful.”
Simon filed for divorce. Rita arrived in court, hopeful the judge would see a mothers right to her child. But the hearing was postponed.
“Simons in hospital,” his colleague, Theresa, said. “Bad car crash. ICU. The cars wrecked. He was alone. Tobys probably with his new womanno one knows where.”
Rita rushed to the hospital. They wouldnt let her in. She trembled outside ICU, sick with fear for Toby. *Whos feeding him? Whos holding him when he cries?*
Thena knock at her door.
She didnt want to answer. But something told her: *Open it.*
A young woman stood there, holding Toby. His eyes were red, cheeks hollow.
“Take him,” the woman sneered. “And take your husband too. Hes disabled now. Doctors say its permanent. I didnt sign up for that. Hes your problem.”
She left. Rita barely noticed. She crushed Toby to her chest, kissing him, weeping. He clung to her, terrified of being taken again.
“Mummys not leaving,” she whispered. “Never again. Youre mine. Mine.”
But she knew Simon wouldnt give up. Once he recovered, it would start all over.
She made her choice. A teaching job in a quiet village. Fresh air. A peaceful life. An old friend promised help with Toby. Hed be safe there. Unreachable.
She visited Simon in hospital. Pale, broken, in a wheelchair.
“Rita dont go,” he rasped. “All these years I was wrong. I wanted to come back. I regret”
She looked at him and saw not her husband, but a pitiful stranger who only cared about himself. Whod expect her to fetch his water, wipe his brow.
“Were leaving,” she said firmly. “No court will give you Toby now. You cant even care for yourself. Keep the flat. Do what you want. Maybe youll fight to live. Maybe not. But I wont stay. Not after you took my son. Not after you broke my heart. Thats unforgivable.”
He raged, threatened, called her a traitor. But his voice was weak. His threats, empty.
After discharge, he went to rehab. He cursed fate, the other driver, the doctorsbut never himself. He still believed Rita shouldve stayed. That hed “forgiven” her. That she owed him.
But Rita was already in another world.
A village where roosters crowed at dawn. Where children ran barefoot in the grass. Where the air smelled of pine and fresh milk. Where pupils called her “Miss Rita” with respect. Where Toby laughed, played, thrived
