She Gave Birth Quietly and Prepared to Give Away Her Baby: My Years as a Midwife Led Me to Intervene When a Young Student Planned to Put Her Daughter Up for Adoption—But a Surprising Turn with the Child’s Father Changed Everything

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 5 minViews 2

Ive been a midwife for ages now, and over the years Ive come across all sorts of storiessome lovely, some heartbreaking. Usually, us nurses keep a respectful distance from the personal matters of mums and their families, but recently I had to step in when I met a young uni student who gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, and straight away said she wanted to put her up for adoption.

Her name was Emily. She came into the hospital without ever having seen a doctor during the whole nine months of her pregnancy, which I found rather strange. She didnt want to answer my questions about it either, and right before the birth, I didnt have time to press her.

Emilys labour was as textbook as you could hope for, unlike many women who have gone through antenatal classes. During the delivery, she just quietly moaned, followed every instruction I gave her, and everything went without a single hitch. When I finally had her little girl in my arms, crying out with that full-bellied wail as newborns do, Emily burst into tears herself. Seeing that, I reassured her the baby was healthy and mentioned how wonderful it was to welcome her into the world.

But once Emily was on the ward, she announced that she wanted to put her baby up for adoption. She asked if we could get social services involved straight away.

We tried talking her out of it, to be honest. We reminded her she might be rushing into things, but she was set on her decision. She wouldnt even let her daughter breastfeed and asked us just to leave her to herself.

Her little girl refused formula, unlike other babies. Shed open her mouth wide at the faintest whiff of milk, stretching her neck as if searching for the breast she wasnt being offered

In the days that followed, the baby began losing weight. On my next shift, I took her and brought her to Emily, despite my colleagues telling me it wasnt the best idea. I explained, firmly but kindly, that her babys health was at risk, and all but begged her just to let her feed. Once Emily finally took her daughter to the breast, the little one latched on immediately, drinking hungrily. I excused myselfsaid I had urgent paperworkand slipped out of the room to give them a bit of privacy.

When I came back half an hour later, I found them asleep togetherEmily holding her baby close, completely at peace. After a bit, Emily came out with her girl swaddled in her arms, sat at my desk, and suddenly started talking.

It turned out the babys dad was a well-known businessman from our town. He was married, and, as youd imagine, far from pleased about Emilys pregnancy. Hed pushed her to end it, but she wasnt having any of it. When he realised Emily was going to have the baby, he confessed everything to his wife. She forgave him apparently, but then took things out on poor Emily, threatening her and demanding that she get rid of the child. Neither bribes nor threats changed Emilys mind. Eventually, the man vanished from town, leaving his wife behind, who kept pestering Emily to put the baby up for adoption.

In the end, Emily looked me squarely in the face and said, I want to keep her, but I have no idea how Ill manage on campus without any money

Hearing her, I praised her for her courage and did my best to lift her spirits. Our head consultant knew nearly everyone in town, so it wasnt hard to get the businessmans contact details to ask him for a chat. To our surprise, he didnt dodge us. He turned up later that day, and we discussed everything needed for Emily and her daughters future. I must say, he proved far more decent than I expected.

After leaving the hospital, Emily found herself a little flat; the babys dad paid the rent upfront for a whole yearabout £14,000. He gave her a generous sum so she wouldnt want for anything to begin with and promised to support his daughter in the future too. I think he finally realised he needed to take responsibility for what had happened. As for Emily and her little girl, I dont know what the future holds, but I hope she finds happiness and raises her daughter in a loving home.

“We’ll Just Stay Until Summer!”: How I Kicked Out My Pushy In-Laws, Changed the Locks, and Reclaimed My Own Flat The intercom didn’t just ring—it howled for attention. I glanced at the clock: 7 AM on a Saturday. My one morning to finally catch up on sleep after closing my quarterly report, not to play hostess. My husband Igor’s sister, Svetlana, looked ready to storm the Bastille on the intercom screen, with her three scruffy kids looming behind her. “Igor!” I barked, not picking up. “Your family. Your problem.” He stumbled from the bedroom, pulling on shorts backwards: if I was speaking in that tone, his family had officially reached the bottom of my patience. While he muttered into the handset, I stood in the hallway, arms folded across my chest. My flat—my rules. This three-bed in the centre of London was mine alone for years before marriage. The last thing I wanted was relatives treating it like a boarding house. The door flung open, and my fragrance-infused, immaculate hallway was invaded. Svetlana, loaded with bags, didn’t even greet me. She nudged me aside as if I were a piece of forgotten furniture. “Oh, thank God, we made it!” she sighed, dumping her bags on my Italian tiles. “Alina, what are you doing standing there? Put the kettle on, the kids are starving after the journey.” “Svetlana,” I said flatly, and Igor shrank into himself, recognising Defcon 1. “What is going on?” “He didn’t tell you?” She widened her eyes. “We’ve got a massive renovation! Pipes, floors ripped up—it’s unliveable. We’ll just stay here for a week. Loads of space, you’ll hardly notice us.” I glared at Igor. He inspected the ceiling—execution imminent. “Igor?” “Come on, Alina, she’s my sister. Can’t have the kids in a building site. One week, promise.” “One week. Seven days. You feed yourselves. Kids don’t run riot, don’t touch the walls, and stay away from my office. Silence after ten, understood?” Svetlana rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you’re like some prison warden. Fine. Where do we sleep? Hope it’s not the floor!” And so the chaos began. A week turned into two, then three. My lovingly designed flat became a pigsty—muddy shoes everywhere, fat stains on my countertops, crumbs, sticky patches. Svetlana took over like she owned the place. “Alina, why’s the fridge empty?” she whined one evening. “The kids need yogurt, and we’d love a steak. You earn well—you can look after family!” “You’ve got a card and shops, use them,” I replied, not glancing up from my laptop. “Tesco delivers 24/7.” “Miser,” she muttered, slamming the fridge. “Can’t take it with you when you’re dead, you know.” But things reached breaking point when I came home early and found my nephew bouncing on my Tempur mattress and his sister drawing on the wall—with my limited edition Tom Ford lipstick. “Out!” I roared, scattering kids everywhere. Svetlana bolted in, shrugged at the carnage: “They’re just kids—who cares about a mark on the wall? You can wash it off. And that lipstick? You’ll buy yourself another. Listen, the builders are useless—so we’re staying until summer. It’ll be fun, you two just rattle around here anyway!” Igor stood mute. Useless. I said nothing, just walked away to avoid a murder charge. Later, Svetlana left her phone on the table to go shower. A message flashed up: “Svetlana, next month’s rent received, tenants happy, want to extend until August? – Marina Lettings.” And a bank notification: “+£800 received.” Click. It all made sense. No renovations—she was renting her place and living free off me: free food, no bills, making a profit. Genius—on my dime. I photographed her screen, hands steady, rage replaced with icy clarity. “Igor, get in here,” I called. He read the photo. Red, then white. “Maybe it’s a mix-up?” “The real mix-up is you not kicking them out yet. You’ve got a choice. Either by tomorrow lunchtime she and the kids are gone, or you all are. Take your mother, too, for good measure.” “But where will they go?” “Don’t care. Under a bridge or The Ritz, if they can afford it.” Next morning, Svetlana left for ‘shopping’—probably with her rent money—leaving the kids with Igor, who took them out. “Take them to the park. All day.” “Why?” “Because I’m about to fumigate the place for parasites.” Once they’d left, I made two calls: one to a locksmith, one to the local police. Hospitality over. Time for a purge. By the time Svetlana returned, loaded with Selfridges bags, the locksmith had changed the locks and her stuff was bagged—five heavy rubbish sacks and two suitcases. She found me and a police officer at the door. “What’s this?” she screeched. “Alina, are you mad? These are my things!” “Exactly. Take them and go. Hotel’s closed.” She bolted for the door, blocked by the constable. “Do you live here? On the tenancy register?” “I’m… my brother’s sister. We’re guests!” She turned red and purple, dialled Igor frantically—straight to voicemail. “You have no right! We have nowhere to go! I have children!” “Don’t lie. Say hi to Marina. And ask if your tenants want to extend to August, or if you’ll need to evict them to live in your own place?” Air left her like a punctured balloon. “You… how?” “You might want to lock your phone, businesswoman. You lived off me to save for a new car? Clever. Now listen: take your bags and get out. I ever see you or your kids near my building again, I’ll inform HMRC about illegal letting. And the police: I’m missing a gold ring, easy to find in your bags if they feel like a search.” (The ring was in my safe, but she didn’t know.) “You evil cow,” she hissed. “God will judge.” “God’s busy. I’m finally free—and so is my flat.” She scrambled for her bags, swearing, fumbled for a taxi as the constable watched. When the lift doors closed behind her and her shattered plans, I thanked the officer. He grinned. “Call if you need me—or just get good locks.” Lock clicked behind me—delicious, solid. The cleaner was nearly finished. Igor returned alone, looked round like he expected a trap. “She’s gone,” he said. “I know.” “She was screaming about you—” “Don’t care what the rats say as they’re thrown off the ship.” I drank a perfect coffee in blissful silence. My kitchen, my fridge, my rules. No lipstick murals left, no shouting, no chaos. “Did you know about the letting?” I asked. “Never! I swear. If I had—” “If you had, you’d have kept quiet. Listen, Igor. This was the last time. One more stunt like this from your family and your bags will be right beside theirs. Understood?” He nodded, pale and fast. He knew I wasn’t joking. The coffee was hot, strong, and—finally—enjoyed in perfect, peaceful silence in my own flat. My crown didn’t pinch. It fit perfectly.

00

A Promise Kept Denis steered calmly and confidently along the motorway; his friend Kirill sat beside him as they returned from a business trip to Manchester, sent by their boss for two days. “Kirill, we really pulled it off! The contract is signed for a huge sum – the boss will be thrilled,” Denis grinned. “Absolutely, we’re lucky,” Kirill agreed. They worked in the same office. “It’s great going home to someone who’s waiting for you,” Denis said. “My Arisha’s pregnant and suffering from morning sickness. I feel for her, but we wanted this baby so badly, she said she’ll endure anything for our child.” “A baby – that’s wonderful. Marina and I haven’t managed it yet… She can’t carry a baby. We’re about to try IVF again; the first round didn’t work,” Kirill confided. He and Marina had been married seven years and desperately wanted a child. Denis had married late, at thirty-two. He’d had other relationships, but none swept him off his feet – until he met Arina. He fell in love so deeply he couldn’t imagine anyone else. When Denis introduced Arina to Kirill and then married her, Kirill, as his best man, had felt a twinge of envy. Arina was beautiful and gentle; he understood Denis’s feelings. A fine autumn drizzle spattered the windshield and the wipers flicked now and then as they chatted cheerfully. Denis’s phone rang and he answered. “Hi, Arisha! Yes, we’re driving home now, should be there in a couple of hours. How are you? Same old, huh? Don’t lift anything heavy; I’ll do everything when I get back. Love you, see you soon.” Kirill listened and pictured Arina waiting, worrying. He thought: “Marina never calls or worries. She thinks I’m bound to her, and she’s nothing like Arisha – everything is tidy, work and home.” Suddenly Denis swerved; a delivery van was careening towards them. The collision was inevitable but they managed to hit a post on Denis’s side and spun off the road. Kirill came to with a throbbing head and blood on his arm. The car sat upright but his door was open. Denis wasn’t moving. Bystanders rushed over; cars stopped. Kirill lay on the wet grass, waiting for an ambulance. Denis was stretchered away; Kirill bent over his friend and heard him whisper, “Help Arisha…” Both were taken to hospital. Kirill had a broken arm and concussion. He anxiously questioned the medics: “How’s Den, my friend?” A nurse finally told him: “Denis passed away…” Kirill was devastated and couldn’t attend the funeral. Marina told him Denis’s widow wept uncontrollably, barely able to stand by his coffin. After discharge, Kirill visited the cemetery with Marina, lingering by Denis’s grave and promising silently: “Don’t worry, mate, I’ll look after your wife, as you asked…” Two days later, he went to Arina’s place. She burst into tears on seeing him. “How do I go on without him? I can’t accept that Den’s gone.” “Arisha, I promised to help you. We’ll manage together. Call me for anything; I’ll visit,” Kirill assured her. Time passed. Arina tried to adjust, fearing her grief might end the pregnancy. The doctor also warned her to stay calm. Kirill visited twice a week, bringing groceries and vitamins, driving her to appointments. Arina didn’t take advantage; she asked for help only as needed. “Kirill, I feel bad that you spend your time on me.” “I don’t mind. I promised Den.” Kirill felt mixed emotions for Arina: she was his dream woman, but the situation overwhelmed him. While Arina endured her sickness, Kirill and Marina pursued more fertility treatments, facing familiar disappointments. Marina was unaware of Kirill’s help for Arina; on his phone, Arina was saved as ‘Charity’ to avoid suspicion from Marina. After another failed IVF attempt, tension grew between Kirill and Marina. She thought he was to blame; he simply stopped caring. Marina became suspicious—her husband seemed distracted, sometimes irritable, off running errands. An affair seemed unlikely; they hadn’t lost that spark. Despite personal troubles, work went well: Kirill returned to the project he’d started with Denis and landed a big contract. Arina’s pregnancy advanced, making her more helpless. Her parents lived far away in Scotland; she had no close friends in London. She suffered headaches and swollen feet but rarely complained. One day, Kirill arrived to find Arina on a stepladder, hanging new curtains. “I just cleaned the window,” she said cheerily, “and I’m putting up new drapes.” “Get down right now,” Kirill barked, eyeing her large belly. “If you fall, it’s no joke.” He helped her down and, standing close, felt a tremor. “Thanks, Kir,” she said, then quickly dashed to the bathroom, morning sickness returning. Kirill wiped his brow, thinking, “Is Denis watching from somewhere? He did ask for my help.” Next, Arina asked, “Kirill, could you help me set up the nursery? I’ve found some wallpaper I like.” Kirill had to tackle the nursery renovation. He couldn’t let Arina strain herself. They worked together; she helped and cheered him on. Between his depressed wife, always upset over infertility, and Arina nearing her due date, Kirill felt torn. Marina sensed their marriage was in jeopardy, threw herself into work, landed a magazine column, and brought home treats and wine to celebrate. “Ooh, what’s this? A party?” Kirill asked, arriving home. “Yes, I landed a big contract—let’s celebrate!” Their favourite movie played on TV; snacks and wine filled the room as they tried to rekindle the old warmth. Kirill’s phone rang. Marina glanced over his shoulder: ‘Charity’ on the screen. He hurried to the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” he whispered. “Kir, sorry, but I think I’m going into labour… Already called an ambulance.” “But it’s early!” “Seven months—it’s possible,” she said, fighting pain. “I’ll meet you at the hospital.” He dressed quickly; Marina eyed him with concern. “You’re leaving?” “Yes,” he improvised. “The boss called about charity work, needs me urgently. I’ll explain later.” But Marina didn’t buy it. “What charity, what boss, what rubbish?” Kirill sped to the hospital; Arina had already arrived. After two hours, the nurse brought news—Arina had a baby boy. Kirill breathed a sigh of relief. At home, Marina eyed him coldly. “That charity work’s worn you out,” she said scornfully. Kirill sat heavily, still dressed. “Yes, Marina, yes… Arina gave birth to a son. I promised Denis I’d help her. She’s completely alone.” “Now I understand… Next, you’ll help Arina with her newborn son, right?” “Yes,” Kirill replied sincerely. “Well, you know me—I won’t tolerate you giving time to someone else’s child, especially when we can’t have one, and probably never will. So I’m filing for divorce. Maybe I’ll meet someone else and have a baby after all.” Kirill looked at her, realising she blamed him for their childlessness. “That’s your choice, Marina, I won’t argue. I need to help Arina and her baby.” In time, Marina filed for divorce. Kirill moved in with Arina to help with baby Danny. Later, they married—and, two years on, welcomed a daughter. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and for your support. Wishing you all the best in life!

06

Someone Else’s Bride Val was in high demand. He’d never advertised in papers or on TV, but his name and number spread by word of mouth – the kind of old-fashioned grapevine you can’t buy. Need an MC for a concert? No problem! Want someone to host a birthday or a wedding? Brilliant! He’d even once hosted a graduation at a local nursery school, charming not just the children but the mums as well. It all started simply enough. A close friend was getting married, but the hired toastmaster never showed – as it turned out later, he’d simply gone on a bender. No time to find a replacement, so Val took the microphone himself. Back at school he’d been involved in amateur dramatics, acted with the “Logos” theatre troupe, and at university was a mainstay of Student Spring and the comedy league. The impromptu hosting was a hit, and right there at the reception, two people came up and asked him to lead their own events. After uni, Val took a job at one of the city’s research institutes, earning peanuts. His first gigs on the side inspired him; the pay was good and it was fun. Soon, event work was bringing him almost ten times his researcher’s salary. After a year, he quit the institute, spent his savings on quality AV gear, set himself up as a sole trader, and launched officially into showbiz. At the same time, he started singing lessons – he already had the voice and ear. Soon he was a singing MC, gigging three nights a week as a singer in a restaurant. So by 30, Val was handsome, fairly well-off, known as a talented singer, DJ, and all-around master of ceremonies who could liven up any event. He wasn’t married – why bother? Women practically threw themselves at him; any girl, a snap of the fingers, and she’d agree to anything. But his mates started settling down, kids arrived, and Val slowly began to yearn for the love and comfort of a family. Only trouble was, he just didn’t know where to look! The easy-come crowd was only ever good for one thing; he wanted a wife for life. “You need to meet a girl at school age,” he’d joke to his friends, “raise her up just right, and marry her when she turns eighteen. The perfect wife!” He started taking school graduation gigs, hoping to find the right girl, but the modern young ladies disappointed him – not at all how he’d pictured his future match. But Val wasn’t downhearted, always surveying the young crowd, “on the hunt for rare game,” as he put it. That’s when fate, or the gods, decided to play a little trick on my cousin once removed… At first, nothing seemed unusual. A woman rang, name-dropping some mutual acquaintances: “We need someone to host our wedding. Are you free on June 17? Wonderful! Can we meet?” They did. And, as Val later put it, for the first time in his life, he knew what it meant for the ground to vanish from under your feet. Introducing herself as Xenia, the woman was dazzling; he’d never seen anyone like her in real life. Articulate, clever, self-assured. Not just beautiful, but clearly intelligent – a rare combination! At first glance, he thought she was about 25, maybe a bit older, but the conversation revealed she’d been a Young Communist League member – so she had to be at least 40. They discussed everything, came to an agreement, signed a contract (despite Xenia’s protests that she trusted him based on references). Val always kept things official – not just for his own security, but for tax records too. While they chatted, a text pinged on Xenia’s phone: “Aha! My fiancé’s here to pick me up. Need a lift?” Val declined but saw her out – partly out of habit, partly out of curiosity, but mostly out of jealousy. The groom, he’d imagined, would be a mature man in his forties. But from the car jumped a lad, clearly younger than Val himself. “Xenia, everything alright?” he called. She smiled: “When is it not?” She climbed in, and her fiancé turned: “Are you the MC for our wedding? Brilliant! I’ve heard you’re the best – Slava told me. Sorry, I’m Robert – the groom.” Val shook his hand. From that day on, Val barely slept. He found excuses to ring Xenia, to hear her voice, see her. The wedding drew closer; Val was beside himself. His mate, the only one he confided in, teased him: “What about all those schoolgirls you wanted to raise as the perfect wife?” Val waved him off: “Forget schoolgirls, Xenia is perfect. I need no one else.” “So tell her!” his mate said. “Are you mad? She’s getting married. Clearly she loves him. Why would she want me with my daft feelings?” Sometimes Robert would pop in, grinning ear to ear: “Here, Xenia asked me to drop this to you…” Val seethed, barely civil. He considered dropping out as host – but then he’d never see Xenia again. He always chickened out. Two days before the big day, Xenia came round to ‘polish off the script’ – at Val’s flat, since his office was being refurbished. They chatted, laughed, everything agreed. Val poured some fizz: “To a perfect wedding.” Xenia grinned, “With pleasure!” The champagne fuelled courage; he kissed her, she kissed him back. The world spun. Val woke up in confusion. Had he just dreamt the best night of his life? But her perfume lingered on the pillow – it had really happened. Now what? The wedding couldn’t possibly go ahead? He rang Xenia. “Hi,” she answered breezily, “Sorry I slipped out – so much to do, the big day tomorrow and all!” “So…the wedding is still on?” Val asked, hollow-voiced. “Of course! Why wouldn’t it be? Everything’s perfect!” Were all women this cynical? How could she go through with the wedding, look her fiancé in the eye after last night? Val was in torment – should he call it all off, ruin the wedding? But he knew he’d take her, even if she was an ice queen. Next day, Val arrived early to the hotel. Decorators gave him sly little glances. And then… Xenia appeared. “Hi. I dashed here right after the register office – I just had to see you,” she beamed. “What’s wrong, Val?” “I don’t get it,” mumbled Val. “You had the registry? And then ran off?” “Well, obviously, silly. Why ride round town with all the youngsters when I’d rather be with you? Or would you rather I left?” “Wait, what youngsters? I thought you were the bride?” Xenia stared, dumbfounded, then burst into pure, bubbly laughter. Val couldn’t help but smile back. “Of course not! My daughter’s the bride – Katie! She just flew back from uni in Edinburgh yesterday,” she sobered, “Did you really think I was marrying? And slept with someone else two days before my own wedding? Cheers for the high opinion!” Finally, Val twigged. Xenia had never said “I” or “we” – always “the bride and groom.” Robert never called her Katie, always Xenia, always in the polite form. How had he never noticed? Then came the real question: “And you? Are you single?” She nodded, and he blurted out, “Marry me! Please…” The wedding was a triumph; the MC outdid himself, the guests raved. The happy couple thanked him: “We don’t know how to thank you enough!” Xenia joined them, “I’ll take care of him. Off you go, your limo’s waiting. I’ll handle things here.” Word soon spread that Val was marrying a woman nine years older than himself. Some were doubtful at first, but then they met the bride. “Who could *not* fall in love with her?” Katie and Xenia gave birth just two weeks apart.

04

Someone Else’s Bride Val turned heads everywhere—never advertising in print or on TV, yet his name and number spread by word of mouth, the talk of the town. Need an MC for a concert? Done! A host for an anniversary or wedding? Sorted! He even hosted a kindergarten graduation once, charming not just the little ones but their mums as well! It all began simply enough. A close mate was getting married, but the hired master of ceremonies failed to turn up—later, it emerged he’d embarked on a bender. With no time to find a replacement, Val grabbed the microphone himself. Back in school, he was centre-stage in amateur dramatics and the “Logos” theatre club; at university, he was always taking the lead in Student Spring and the comedy KVN team. That first impromptu gig went brilliantly, and right there in the banqueting hall, two guests asked him to host their upcoming events. After university, Val landed a junior role at a city research institute, earning peanuts. His first foray into running events proved inspiring—he took any job going, relishing not just the financial rewards but the thrill of it all. Soon, his event earnings far outstripped his official salary. After a year, Val made a bold decision: left the institute, spent his savings on professional kit, registered as self-employed, and made entertainment his day job. He even took singing lessons—turns out he had a voice and talent for music. In no time, he was the singing host, and moonlit as a club singer three nights a week. Now thirty, Val was handsome, comfortably off, and a sought-after musician, DJ, and event MC—the life and soul of any party. He wasn’t married—why bother? Women flocked to him, ready to say yes to any invitation. But his friends were settling down and starting families, so he found himself longing for quiet domestic happiness. The only snag: with whom? The easy options held no real appeal; he dreamed of meeting the one—for a lifetime. “You’ve got to meet a schoolgirl, bring her up to your standards, and marry her when she comes of age—the perfect wife!” he quipped. He even started accepting jobs at school proms, hoping to find a future girlfriend, but modern girls weren’t what he’d pictured. Still, he didn’t lose heart, forever on the lookout—as he put it, “on the hunt for a rare catch.” Then fate decided to play a joke on my cousin Val. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A woman rang, citing mutual friends: “We need a master of ceremonies for a wedding. Are you free on the 17th of June? Wonderful! Could we meet?” They met. And, as Val later put it, for the first time in his life he understood the meaning of “the ground shifting beneath your feet.” The woman, introducing herself as Christine, was dazzling—Val had never seen anyone like her. Confident, bright, intelligent—clearly both beautiful and smart, a rare combination. On first glance, she looked about twenty-five, maybe a little older, but in conversation she mentioned being a member of the Young Communists, so she must be at least forty! They discussed the details, came to an agreement, and signed a contract, although Christine objected: “Is it necessary? I trust you; I’ve heard great things.” But Val always insisted on paperwork: “It’s for my accounts, I don’t need any trouble with the taxman.” Though, truthfully, he just wanted tangible proof she existed. Christine’s phone pinged with a text. “Oh, there’s my fiancé come to collect me. Can I give you a lift?” Val declined but saw her out. He always did, especially if the engaged couple arrived separately—good to observe their chemistry. But this time it wasn’t curiosity but envy and jealousy that drove him. The fiancé surprised him—Val expected a man around forty, but out sprang a guy clearly younger than himself. “Christine, all good?” She just smiled, as if everything was always fine. She got in the car; the fiancé shut the door and turned to Val: “So, you’ll be hosting our wedding? Delighted. Slav has sung your praises—said you’re the best!” He offered his hand. “Sorry, didn’t introduce myself—Christine will give me an earful. I’m Rob, the groom.” All Val wanted was to sock Rob, wipe that grin off his face, but he simply shook his hand: “Val. Pleasure.” From that moment on, Val lost his peace of mind. He sought any excuse to call Christine, to hear her voice, to see her. The wedding day drew nearer; Val thought he was losing his mind. The one friend he confided in asked mockingly: “What about those schoolgirls—the ‘ideal wife’ project?” Val just waved him off: “Forget that! Christine is the ideal woman, and I don’t need anyone else.” “Tell her!” the friend suggested. “Are you mad? She’s getting married—she must be in love. Why would she care about my feelings?” Occasionally, a beaming Rob would pop in: “Christine asked me to drop this off…” At those moments, Val had to bite his tongue to avoid a sharp retort. He contemplated pulling out of the wedding, reputation be damned! But then he’d never see Christine again—and he always chickened out. Two days before the big day, Christine visited once more, “to polish the script and make sure it’s perfect.” The office was undergoing renovation, so they met at Val’s flat. They chatted, joked—on top form. Finally, the last detail was settled; Val suggested a glass of champagne. “To a perfect wedding!” Christine agreed playfully: “Gladly!” Christine laughed, impossibly beautiful. Emboldened by champagne, Val kissed her—and she kissed him back. Their heads spun. Val woke up suddenly. He sat up in bed. Had he just dreamt the best night of his life? But the pillow beside him had her distinct perfume—so it had really happened. Was the wedding still happening? Val called Christine. “Hi…” She greeted him as if nothing had happened: “Hello! How are you? Sorry I slipped away, but you know, so much to do before the wedding tomorrow!” “So, the wedding’s still on?” Val asked hollowly. “Of course! Why wouldn’t it be? Everything’s fine!” Are all women so cold? How could the wedding still go ahead? How could she look her fiancé in the eye? Val was beside himself—should he crash the wedding? Did he really want such a callous woman? He asked himself honestly: Yes, he did. Whatever happened. Next day at the restaurant, decorations were being finished, and Val spotted Christine. “Hi. I left straight after the ceremony—couldn’t wait to see you,” she said, beaming. “What’s wrong, Val?” “I don’t get it—so the registration went ahead? And then you left?” “Of course, you silly man. Why should I go traipsing round town with the youngsters when I can spend time with you? Or don’t you want me to?” “Wait—‘youngsters’? Aren’t you the bride?” Christine stared, then burst out laughing, so joyfully that Val couldn’t help but smile back. “Of course not! It’s my daughter, Chrissie! She’s at uni in Edinburgh—just flew in yesterday.” Christine suddenly went serious. “Did you really think I was the bride?” “And that, two days before getting married, I’d sleep with someone else? What must you think of me?” Only then did Val realized: Christine had never said “I” or “we”—always “the bride and groom.” And Rob had never called her Chrissie, just Christine, and always been formal. How did he not notice? It was all rather hilarious… Then he asked the most important question: “And you? Are you single?” When she nodded, he blurted out, “Marry me, please…” The wedding was a triumph—the host surpassed himself, the guests were thrilled. The newlyweds thanked Val at the end: “Thank you! We honestly don’t know how to thank you for a magical evening.” “I’ll thank him myself,” Christine chimed in. “You run along; your limo’s waiting. I’ll see to everything here.” The news that Val was marrying a woman nine years his senior spread like wildfire among relatives. There was hesitation at first—until they saw the bride. Then everyone agreed, “How could you not fall for her?” Christine and Chrissie both gave birth two weeks apart.

07

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

She Gave Birth Quietly and Prepared to Give Away Her Baby: My Years as a Midwife Led Me to Intervene When a Young Student Planned to Put Her Daughter Up for Adoption—But a Surprising Turn with the Child’s Father Changed Everything