“You’re not a mother—you’re a curse!” he shouted, shoving me out the door. “Look what you’ve done! Because of you, our child is sick! Get out! Now! I don’t want to see you in this house ever again!” His voice was sharp, dripping with fury, not a shred of doubt. Just blame.
And just like that, James ended it. Not an argument—our family.
He was certain: every sniffle, every fever, every tear from our son was my fault. I was a terrible mother, careless, always doing everything wrong. There was no reasoning with him. He wouldn’t listen. He didn’t want to.
I pressed myself against the hallway wall, trembling, as he stormed through our flat, slamming drawers, tossing our son’s things in his rage. In the other room, our little boy lay feverish, weak, drifting in and out of sleep. I’d spent the entire night by his side, cooling his forehead, soothing him, never leaving. And now—*get out*.
When James finally put him to bed, he turned to me. His face was cold, his eyes hard.
“Why are you still here? I told you to leave. Forget about him. He doesn’t need a mother like you. And don’t let me see you again.”
I didn’t shout. Didn’t argue. Just whispered that I loved our son, that I’d do better, be better. Begged him to stop. But he wasn’t listening.
“You just get in the way, Emily,” he said, like a knife to the chest. “I’ve seen enough.”
He packed my bag in silence, opened the front door, and pointed.
I don’t remember how I ended up outside. The world blurred. The cold bit into my skin, my hands shook, and one thought hammered in my skull: *I left my son… I’ve been erased from his life.*
James didn’t answer my calls the next day. Or the next week. He blocked me everywhere.
I texted, called his mother, pleaded just to see him—just once. No reply. As if I’d never existed.
I’m his mother. I carried him for nine months. Brought him into this world, sang him to sleep, held him through sleepless nights, rocked him when his gums ached.
And now—I was nothing.
James decided, alone, that he could take my child from me. Not a court, not social services. Just a man, angry that our son caught a cold.
But I wasn’t to blame. It was just a cold—autumn, draughty classrooms, a nursery full of sniffles. For James, it was an excuse. A last straw. A way to break me.
I don’t know how this ends. But I won’t give up. I’ll find a way—through courts, through years, if I must. I’ll get my son back.
Because I’m his mum. And being a mum isn’t a role you quit. It’s forever. Even when your whole world is locked behind a door.
*Some things aren’t meant to be taken away—not by anger, not by pride. Love outlasts even the cruelest storms.*
