He threw me out, blaming me for our 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 ever want to see you in this house again! — he shouted, his voice brimming with absolute certainty. No doubt, just pure rage and accusation.
That was how James ended it. Not just the argument—our entire family.
He was convinced: everything happening to our son was my fault. The fever, the cough, the tears—all supposedly because of me. A bad mother, careless, always “doing everything wrong.” And trying to reason with him was impossible. He wouldn’t listen, refused to hear a word.
I pressed myself against the hallway wall as he stormed through the flat, slamming cupboard doors, furiously rearranging our son’s things. In the other room lay our little boy—burning with fever, drowsy, weak. I had spent the entire night with him, soothing him, bringing his temperature down, never leaving his side. And now? “Get out.”
When James finally put our son to bed, he turned to me. His face was cold. His eyes were ice.
—Why are you still here? I told you—get lost. Forget about the child. 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 boy, that I’d change, do better. Begged him to stop. But he wouldn’t listen.
—You’re nothing but trouble. You’re hurting him, Emily, — he snapped. —I’ve seen enough.
He shoved my things into a bag. Silently opened the door. And pointed the way out.
I don’t remember stumbling onto the street. My vision blurred. The cold bit into me, my hands shook, and only one thought hammered in my head: “I left him… James cut me out of my own child’s life.”
He didn’t answer my calls the next day. Ignored me for weeks. Blocked me everywhere.
I sent messages, called his mother, pleaded just to see my son. No response. Like I’d simply vanished.
I’m his mother. I carried that boy inside me for nine months. I gave birth to him, sang him lullabies, held him through sleepless nights, cradled him when his teeth ached.
And now—I’m “nothing.”
James decided he had the right to take my child away. Not a court, not social services. Just a man angry because a toddler caught a cold.
But I wasn’t to blame. It was just a normal flu. Autumn, drafty rooms, nursery germs—kids get sick. Yet for James, it was an excuse. A final straw. A reason to destroy me.
I don’t know how this ends. But I won’t give up. I’ll find a way. Through courts, through a fight, through years if I have to—I’ll get my son back.
Because I’m his mum. And being a mum isn’t temporary. It’s for life. Even if your life is suddenly on the other side of a locked door.
