Another Woman’s Son – When a Stranger Claims: “Your Husband Is the Father of My Child” As Christina enjoys a peaceful lunch, an unknown woman suddenly announces, “Your husband is the father of my child.” Unfazed, Christina calmly asks about the child’s age and learns he is eight—long before her marriage to Arthur. Uninterested in the past, Christina shrugs off the revelation, suggesting Arthur would want to help, while the woman, Marina, demands child support and threatens court. A swift DNA test confirms young Egor is indeed Arthur’s son. Curious about Egor’s withdrawn temperament, Christina visits Marina’s upscale flat, noticing Egor’s lack of toys and signs of emotional neglect, while Marina claims poverty yet flaunts luxury goods. When the case goes to court, evidence and testimony from neighbours and a child psychologist reveal Egor’s mistreatment. The judge rules in Arthur’s favour—granting him full custody and the chance for Egor to finally experience a loving family. Now, Egor has a spacious room of his own, toys galore, a computer, and, most importantly, parental love from both Christina and Arthur—something he’s never known before.

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 6 minViews 2

Your husband is the father of my child.

With this announcement, an unfamiliar woman swooped down on Sarah as she was peacefully tucking into her Caesar salad. The woman made herself at home in the seat opposite, clearly expecting a reaction worthy of a soap opera episode.

And how old is your little one? Sarah replied, poker-faced, as if strange women made these sorts of declarations over lunch every Tuesday.

Eight, snapped the woman her name turned out to be Helen. She obviously expected fireworks: outrage, howls of liar!, or at least a haughty sniff.

Splendid, said Sarah, not missing a beat as she dabbed delicately at the remains of the cafés famous Bakewell tart. Weve only been married three years, so whatever went on before me is about as interesting as last years Big Brother. One thing, thoughdoes Matthew know?

Helen huffed and leaned back in her chair. No, but thats beside the point! Im taking him to court! He will pay child support, understand?

Well, of course he will, Sarah replied cheerily. Matts an absolute pushover for kids. Had he known earlier, Im sure hed have been round with a football by now. Whats the lads name, by the way?

Oscar, Helen blurted out, then immediately scowled. Dont you care your precious hubbys got a kid lurking in the background?

Ill say it again, whatever happened before our marriage is his businessnot mine. Sarahs gentle smile was unshakable. I was under no illusionsI didnt marry a choirboy. Perfectly normal for a man of thirty to have a few chapters in his story. Doesnt bother me at all. What matters is now.

Fine, Helen snapped, standing up in a flurry of Chanel fragrance strong enough to stun a horse. See you in court. Youd best get your chequebook readyIll demand every penny my Oscars owed!

She swept out, leaving an aromatic fog in her wake. Sarah, struggling not to fan her face, finished her dessert.

Good luck with that, she mused, popping the final cherry into her mouth. Wonder how shell react when she learns Matts official salary is only £1,200 a month. Business is all in his dads name, and now hes caring for his poorly mum. Shell be lucky to get a fiver

She felt a smidgen sorry for the childOscar hadnt asked for any of this. Maybe she should pop round to visit, see how things were, perhaps even agree a sensible monthly sumnot that Helen struck her as someone keen to negotiate.

Assuming, of course, Oscar really was Matts son. Shed met her share of melodramatic exes before

*********************

The DNA test was sorted out with remarkable speedmoney talks almost as loudly in the UK as anywhere. The result was bang to rights: Oscar was indeed Matts little lad.

But Sarah couldnt help noticing how Oscar seemed well, absolutely silent. Eight-year-old boys were usually ricocheting off the walls, but Oscar sat transfixed in the waiting room chair for a full ninety minutes, staring at a spot on the carpet. No Can I have your phone?, no running up and down the corridor, not even a moan about cartoons.

It was odd. And it really cemented Sarahs resolve to pay Oscar and Helen a proper visit.

The flat was lovelyright in a good bit of Chiswick. A doorman, a spacious two-bedroom, swanky new kitchen

Sarah ticked off all the observations in her mind and wondered, not for the first time, how Helen could bemoan her financial woes.

The court dates next week, Helen grunted, ushering Sarah inside with all the warmth of a Trappist monk. We could just wait till then.

I wanted to get to know Oscar. Matts really looking forward to having him in his life, Sarah said. Hes thinking of having him round on weekends, once theyve bonded a bit.

Oh, as if! snapped Helen. No way hes taking my Oscar!

The court has something to say about it, replied Sarah coolly. Hes the fatherits his right. I dont see any toys about?

I can hardly afford school trousers, let alone silly plastic tat, Helen replied with a sniff. Kids need new trainers before they need Lego sets.

Really? Sarahs gaze lingered on a shiny Mulberry bag on the table; a pile of Zara shopping bags on the sofa; gleaming make-up arranged like an altar beneath the mirror. Short on cash, are we?

I have my own life! Im still young, and I want to settle down again, Helen shot back through gritted teeth. She didnt like the direction of this conversation one bit.

Who looks after Oscar while youre out, er meeting contenders? Sarah pressed. She was starting to see why Oscar behaved the way he did.

Hes eight, not a babyhe can manage a few hours alone. Is that all you wanted to know? Otherwise, see you in court!

Ill be requesting receipts for every penny thats actually spent on Oscar, Sarah retorted, already halfway to the door. It boggled her mindthe utter indifference. I dont think youll like the judges decision.

**********************

the court finds in favour of Helen Lipton, in part. Matt Mallory is hereby recognised as the father of Oscar Lipton. The Registry Office shall amend the birth certificate accordingly. However, with regards to maintenance, the claim is rejected. Mr Mallorys counterclaimregarding the childs residenceis granted

Sarah allowed herself a quiet, triumphant smile. Oscar would live with them. Perhaps the neighbours would gossipHow could she take a child from his own mother?but in her bones, she knew it was right. Helens neighbours had delivered a Greek chorus of horror stories: Helen didnt give a fig about Oscar, shouted at him for so much as sneezing, was quick with a slap, and didnt care who saw it. Oscars teachers and an earnest child psychologist had all insisted he needed a new start, away from Helen.

Now, Oscar had his own roomhuge, sunny, filled to the brim with toys, video games, and books. Most importantly, hed have a father (and step-mum) ready to shower him with the sort of ordinary, unconditional affection hed never known before. Matt and Sarah, truth be told, had already gone a bit gooey over the lad. They could only hope Oscar would soon believe he was truly, irrevocably loved.

He Closed the Door Right in My Face “Mum, I know you don’t love me…” Zoe froze, towel in hand, and turned slowly to face her son. Alex stood in the doorway, sulking, hands stuffed into the pockets of his pyjama bottoms. “What?” Zoe folded the towel. “Why on earth would you think that?” “Gran said so.” Of course—Gran. “And what else did Gran say?” Alex stepped into the kitchen, chin raised stubbornly, his eyes defiant—so much like his father. “She said you left Dad because you didn’t want me to have a proper family. A real one. That you left just to spite me so I wouldn’t be a happy child.” Zoe stared at her son. Nearly ten years old. It had been two years since they started living alone, since Val disappeared from Alex’s life without so much as a call or even a birthday card. Tamara Peterson, ex-mother-in-law extraordinaire, made sure to see Alex every weekend—and drip poison in his ear. “Alex, darling,” Zoe tried to keep her voice even, “you really shouldn’t listen to everything Gran says. She doesn’t know everything.” “She does!” Alex’s voice jumped. “She knows it all! You’re the liar! If you loved me, you would have kept the family together! You wouldn’t have filed for divorce! You wouldn’t have destroyed everything!” Every word was a knife to Zoe’s heart. She saw his trembling lip, his bright eyes. He believed it. God, he really believed it. “Alex—” “Dad would still be with us! We’d be together!” “Your father hasn’t called you once in two years,” Zoe blurted. “Not once, do you hear me?” “That’s because you won’t let him! Gran says you forbid him!” Alex spun and ran out of the kitchen. A second later—slam—the bedroom door shook the house. Zoe stayed by the table—half-folded towels, ticking clock, loud silence. She sat, buried her face in her hands. The tears came hot and furious. Val had cheated, spent two months with some woman from his office. When Zoe found out, he barely bothered to apologise. Shrugged. These things happen. How could she forgive him? How could she live with a man who lied straight to her face? And now, Alex blamed her for everything. And Tamara Peterson—saintly Granny—kept weaving her web. Her precious son did nothing wrong, it was the wife who couldn’t put up with things, who wouldn’t keep the family for the sake of the child. Zoe wiped her face and looked out the window. Her child—nearly ten. He didn’t understand. Perhaps he wouldn’t for a long time. Three days crawled by painfully. Alex was there but distant—even breakfasting, homework, dinner. A shadow behind glass. Zoe asked about school—he muttered, glued to his phone. She called him to dinner—he came, ate in silence. She tried to hug him at bedtime—he wriggled away, muttered “night” and closed his bedroom door. On Friday, Zoe decided: enough. After work, she went shopping. A “Black Forest” gateau, his favourite crisps, a big ham-and-mushroom pizza. Maybe a movie. Maybe they’d talk, like before. She pushed open the flat door, dragged the bags into the kitchen. “Alex! Come see what I’ve brought!” Silence. “Alex?” She went down the hall, opened his door—empty. Bed stripped, books on the desk, but…the rucksack was gone. His coat missing, too. She grabbed her phone and rang him. Long rings, then voicemail. Texted: “Where are you? Call me.” The ticks turned blue—he’d read it. No reply. She called again. Once, twice, five times—declined. “What is going on…” Fingers shook, slipped on the screen. Again and again—ring, ring, ring. Click. “Hello?” “Alex!” Zoe clutched the phone. “Where are you? Are you okay?” “I’m fine.” His voice was calm. Far too calm. “Where are you? Why did you leave?” “I’ve gone to Dad’s. I’m going to live with him.” Zoe stood frozen. “What?!” “Gran said Dad wanted to take me. In court. But you insisted. You made them leave me with you. Well, I don’t want to. I’ll be better off with Dad.” “Alex, wait—” Short beeps. Disconnected. She rang back—declined. Again—now switched off. Chaos. She shoved on her coat, dropped her bag, called a cab. She still knew Val’s address by heart. Twenty minutes in traffic. Twenty minutes chewing her nails and thoughts. Taxis edged into the estate. Zoe thrust a note at the driver and ran. On the bench outside the block sat Alex. His coat thrown open, rucksack at his feet, face wet, red, shoulders trembling. He’d been crying. She rushed over, kneeling on the wet pavement, and grabbed his shoulders. The cold soaked through her jeans—she didn’t care. “Are you okay? Have you eaten? What happened? Why are you crying?” Her hands checked—arms, face—making sure he was in one piece. Cheeks frozen, nose red, eyelashes stuck with tears. Alex met her eyes. Red, swollen, so much pain she could hardly breathe. “Dad chucked me out.” Zoe stiffened. Her hands froze on his shoulders. “What?” “He lives with someone else—there’s a little kid,” Alex sniffed, wiping his face with a sleeve, smearing tears and dirt. “He wouldn’t even let me inside. Told me I shouldn’t have come. To go back to Mum. And he just shut the door. Right in my face.” His voice cracked, and he turned away. Shoulders shaking. Zoe pulled him close, hugged him tightly, buried her face in his hair—smelling of cold air and children’s shampoo. This time he didn’t pull away. For the first time in three days—he clung on, pressed his face into her shoulder. “Let’s go,” she whispered, once the tears eased, “let’s sort this, once and for all.” Fifteen minutes in a taxi to Tamara Peterson’s. Alex silent, staring out at the streetlamps. Zoe held his hand—he didn’t let go. His small, cold hand in hers. The door flew open at once, as if his gran were waiting. Dressing gown, curlers, slippers with bobbles—the picture of domestic bliss. Only her eyes—they darted, wary. “Oh!” Tamara brought her hands to her chest, stepping back. “Has your mother dragged you here? Wants to turn you against your dad? Against me?” Alex stepped forward, across the threshold. Zoe saw his back—thin, tense, so childlike under that soon-too-small coat. “Gran,” Alex raised his head, and Zoe heard something new in his voice—grown up—“you lied to me, didn’t you?” Tamara blinked. For a moment, her mask slipped. “What? Alex dearest, whatever do you mean?” “I went to Dad’s. He turned me away. Why?” Zoe watched her face change—the kindly-grandmother mask slipping, eyes darting between grandson and Zoe. “Alex, darling, it’s your mother’s fault, she—” “You told me that Mum wouldn’t let me and Dad talk. That she wouldn’t let him call me. That he missed me. Waited for me.” Alex’s fists clenched, knuckles white. “So why did he close the door in my face? Why didn’t he even want to see me? Why did he look at me like a stranger?” “He’s busy, it’s a tough time for him…” “Or maybe Mum was telling the truth?” Alex’s voice rose, and Tamara flinched. “That he doesn’t want me? That he never wanted our family? He’s got a new wife now. A little baby. They’re all so happy. Why would he want me? I’m just in the way—someone he couldn’t care less about!” Tamara straightened, chin up, her eyes flashing something fierce, cornered. “She’s put this in your head!” she snapped, jabbing at Zoe. “It’s all your mother’s fault, she destroyed the family, she—” “Enough!” Alex shouted, Zoe jumped. The stairwell echoed his anger. “You’re lying! I’ve had enough of your stories! For two years you told me fairytales about Dad, but he never even called me for my birthday! Never! I’m not coming back here, not ever. Don’t phone me again. If Dad doesn’t want me—then I don’t want him. Or you.” He grabbed Zoe’s hand. “Mum, let’s go.” Tamara stood in the doorway, pale and open-mouthed. For the first time ever, Zoe saw her lost—bereft—without her usual armour of blame and bitterness. “Goodbye,” Zoe said, and closed the door gently behind them. At home, Alex ate two slices of cold pizza and drank three mugs of hot tea with raspberry jam. He sat on the sofa, wrapped in his tartan blanket, subdued, nose still red. Outside, it was pitch black, and the lamplight cast warm shadows across his face. “Mum.” “Yes, love?” “I’m sorry.” Zoe set down her mug, looked at her son—small shoulders, ruffled hair, that stubborn crease between his brows. “You always tried. Did everything for me. Worked so hard, cooked, took care of me. I just listened to Gran. I believed her, not you.” Alex stared at the fringe on the blanket. “That’s not going to happen again. From now on, I’ll think for myself. I’ll trust what I see. Not what people tell me.” Zoe smiled, moved closer, ruffled his hair. He didn’t dodge—leaned into her, just as he did when he was little. The lesson was harsh. Maybe even cruel. But Alex had learned it.