He threw me out, blaming me for the child’s illness: “You’re not a mother, you’re a curse.”
“What have you done?! Because of you, the child is sick! Get out! Now! I don’t want to see you in this house anymore!” he shouted, his voice raw with fury. No hesitation—only accusation.
That was how Oliver ended it. Not the conversation—our family.
He was certain: everything wrong with our son was my fault. The fever, the cough, the tears—supposedly all because of me. Because I was a bad mother, because I hadn’t paid attention, because I “always do everything wrong.” And there was no changing his mind. He wouldn’t listen—didn’t want to.
I pressed myself against the hallway wall as he stormed through the flat, slamming cupboard doors, furiously rearranging tiny clothes. In the next room, our son lay burning and weak, exhaustion pulling him under. I’d spent the whole night by his side, cooling his forehead, coaxing water past his lips, never stepping away. And now—”get out.”
When Oliver finally tucked the boy in, he turned to me. His face was cold. His eyes, frozen with resolve.
“Why are you still here? I told you to leave. Forget about the child. He doesn’t need a mother like you. And don’t let me see you again.”
I didn’t scream. Didn’t argue. I only whispered that I loved our son, that I could change, be better. Begged him to stop. But he didn’t listen.
“You’re just in the way. You’re only hurting him, Emily,” he said, like a gunshot. “I’ve figured it all out.”
He packed my bag. Silently opened the door. Pointed outside.
I don’t remember how I ended up on the street. The world blurred. The air was icy, my hands shook, and a single thought hammered inside my skull: “I left my son… I’ve been erased from his life.”
Oliver didn’t answer my calls the next day. Didn’t reach out in the weeks that followed. He blocked me everywhere.
I sent messages, phoned his mother, pleaded to at least see my child. No one replied. As if I had ceased to exist.
I am a mother. I carried that boy inside me for nine months. I birthed him, sang him to sleep, held him through endless nights, cradled him when his tiny teeth ached.
And now—I’m “nobody.”
Oliver decided he had the right to take my child away. Not a court, not social services. Just a man, angry that a toddler caught a cold.
And I *wasn’t* to blame. It was just a bug. Autumn, drafts, a nursery full of sneezing children. But for Oliver, it was the final excuse. A reason to strike. To condemn.
I don’t know how this ends. But I won’t give up. I’ll find a way. Even if it takes the courts, even if it takes years—I will get my son back.
Because I’m his mum. And being a mum isn’t a temporary role. It’s for life. Even if your life is suddenly left on the other side of a locked door.
