“Dont look at me like that! I dont want this child. Take it!” a stranger shoved a baby carrier into my arms before I could even grasp what was happening.
My husband and I had always lived in harmony, rarely arguing. I prided myself on being a devoted wife and homemaker. We married young, still at university, and soon welcomed twins into our lives. Once the children were older, we started a small business. I helped occasionally, but my priority was raising our children and keeping our home in order. Cooking was my passion. My husband eagerly awaited weekends when Id surprise him with new dishes, and our girls always wondered what Mum would whip up next.
Amidst the chaos of parenthood, work, and home, I never questioned my husbands loyalty. But the past year had been toughbusiness slowed, money grew tight, and my husband travelled across the country securing sales contracts. With our girls starting primary school, I stayed home with them.
Then, one evening as we parked outside our house, a stunning woman stormed toward us. Before I could react, she thrust the baby carrier at me.
“Dont look at me like that! If he wont be with me, I dont want this childtake it!” she shrieked, jabbing a finger at my husband.
I stood frozen, unable to process her words.
“You promised youd leave her! If you wont, then I wont keep this baby!” With that, she spat at my feet, spun on her heel, and marched off.
It took minutes for the shock to fade, leaving me clutching the carrier. I didnt need to ask my husbandhis guilt was written plainly on his face. Inside, a baby boy, no more than two weeks old, slept soundly.
“Fetch the girls from school and buy everything on this list for the baby,” I said. He nodded silently.
Eighteen years passed. Friends condemned me for raising another womans child, but I loved him as my own. Our girls adored their little brother, and we never hid the truth from him. When he grew old enough, we explained everythingto our relief, he accepted it calmly, never asking about his birth mother.
Our marriage had frayed, but my husband worked tirelessly to mend it. On our sons 18th birthday, we gathered with familyour daughters, now married and living independently, joined the celebration. Just as we sat down, the doorbell rang. A thin woman stood there, her face eerily familiar.
“Ive come for my son,” she declared.
“He isnt yours,” my son and I replied in unison.
Without another word, he shut the door and guided us back to the table. Tears welled in my eyesnot of sorrow, but of joy. Family isnt always bound by blood; sometimes, its built on love, patience, and the courage to forgive.
