Another Woman’s Son: When a Stranger Confronts You at Lunch with the Shocking News—“Your Husband Is the Father of My Child”—and the Unexpected Journey That Changes All Their Lives

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 6 minViews 2

Your husband is the father of my child.

With these words, a stranger approached Charlotte as she sat enjoying her lunch. The woman sat down across from her, regarding Charlotte expectantly, clearly waiting for some sort of reaction.

And how old is your little one? Charlotte replied, maintaining an air of calm, as though this sort of thing happened to her every day.

Eight, the woman replied, pursing her lips in clear disappointment. She had expected a display of anger, accusations of lying, or at least a hint of outrage or disgust.

How wonderful, Charlotte smiled faintly and returned her attention to the delicious cherry tart in front of her, served exclusively at this particular tearoom in Bath. You see, weve only been married for three years, so anything before that isnt my concern. She allowed a hint of curiosity into her voice. But tell medoes George know?

No, the woman said, pulling back in her chair with irritation, but that hardly matters! Ill be applying for child support, and he will pay, you understand?

He certainly will, Charlotte replied calmly. My husband adores children, and if he had known earlier, Im sure he would have been involved in your sons life. Whats his name, by the way?

Oliver, the woman responded automatically, then frowned. Dont you care that your beloved has a child outside your marriage?

As I said before, Im not fussed about anything that happened before we wed, Charlotte replied with a gentle smile still on her lips. I was under no illusions when I married Georgehe was hardly a sheltered schoolboy at the age of thirty. Of course he had romances in his past. What matters is that now, Im the one he chooses.

Well, Ill see you in court then. Youd better be prepared to fork out; Ill be demanding every pound my son is due.

With that, the woman rose, trailing an overpowering scent of perfume in her wake. Charlotte struggled not to wrinkle her nose; the woman must have drenched herself in half a bottle.

Well, best of luck, Charlotte mused philosophically as she finished her tart. I wonder how shell take the news that Georges official salary is hardly more than thirty thousand pounds a year. The business is all in his fathers name And now hes caring for his ailing mum, too. Shell get only peanuts.

Charlotte did feel a pang of sympathy for the boyhe was blameless in all this. Perhaps she should visit them. Have a look at how things really were. And maybe try to come to an arrangement, so the boy received decent support each month.

But of course, only if Oliver really was Georges son. Shed met women like this before

*****

The DNA test was arranged swiftlymoney can smooth many obstacles. The result was unambiguous: George was indeed Olivers father.

Yet something about the boy unsettled Charlotte. He seemed painfully subdued. What eight-year-old can sit in complete silence for over an hour, waiting while grown-ups sorted paperwork and prepared for the test? He didnt ask for cartoons, didnt wander the room, didnt make a soundin short, he acted nothing like other children his age.

It struck Charlotte as odd. Now more than ever she felt the need to see Oliver in his own home.

The address was in a respectable part of Winchester. There was a concierge at the entrance. The flat itself had two bedrooms and tasteful decor.

Charlotte took it all in automatically, puzzled as to how a woman with such a comfortable home could claim to be desperate for money.

The court hearings next week, the womanPamela, as she had introduced herselfsaid grudgingly, letting her in. You could have waited until then.

I wanted to get to know Oliver a bit first, Charlotte replied. George is keen to be involved now. Hed like to have Oliver over on weekends, once the boys comfortable with it.

Over my dead body! Pamela huffed.

The court will decide, Charlotte returned evenly. He is the boys father, and has every right. But I must askwhere are all his toys?

Theres barely enough for clothes, let alone silly things like that, Pamela sniffed.

Really? Charlotte cast a pointed look at the expensive designer handbag resting on the table, high-end outfits flung over the sofa, and the luxury cosmetics beside the mirror. Youre struggling for money?

Im still young. Id like to find a husband and start a family again, Pamela replied tightly, not liking Charlottes tone.

And while youre out and about, who looks after your son? Charlotte pressed, beginning to understand why the boy seemed so listless.

Hes old enough to be by himself. Anything else, or shall we meet in court?

Ill be requesting that every penny spent on the child is carefully accounted for, Charlotte replied firmly. She didnt want to linger in such a cold atmosphere; it was hard to accept how a mother could treat her only child so indifferently. Frankly, I doubt youll like the judges decision…

*****

the court finds for the claimant, Pamela Smith, in part. It recognises George Williams as the father of Oliver Smith and instructs the registry office to amend the birth certificate accordingly. However, the request for child maintenance is denied. The counterclaim by George Williams regarding the childs place of residence is granted

Charlotte couldnt hide a smile; her goal was achievedOliver would come to live with them. Some might criticise her for taking a boy from his mother, but it was the right choice. All of Pamelas neighbours had testified that Pamela had little interest in her son, often shouting at him or even striking him in public. The child psychologist insisted Oliver needed to be removed from such an environment, and both teachers and former carers supported her assessment.

Now Oliver could have his own sizeable bedroom, heaps of toys, his own computer But above all, he would finally know what it meant to be truly loved. Both George and Charlotte had already grown deeply fond of that quiet, remarkable boy.

Sometimes life presents unexpected challenges, but meeting them with kindness can reveal where love is most neededand give a child the family he truly deserves.

Towards a New Chapter: “Mum, how much longer must we stay in this backwater? We’re not just in the sticks—we’re in the sticks of the sticks,” sang my daughter Masha as she returned from a coffee shop. “I’ve told you a hundred times—this is our home, our roots. I’m not going anywhere,” I replied from my place on the sofa, legs propped up like what I call the ‘Queen’s gymnast pose.’ “Roots, roots… Give it ten more years and you’ll wilt, and then another ‘beetle’ will show up for you to introduce as my new dad.” After those painful words, I stared at my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. “My roots are just fine, don’t exaggerate…” “That’s what I’m saying—right now they’re normal, but soon enough you’ll have to decide if you’re a turnip, pumpkin, or sweet potato—whatever takes your chef’s fancy.” “If you want to move, go yourself, darling. You’re legally an adult. Why do you need me?” “For peace of mind, Mum. If I leave for a better life, who’ll look after you?” “My insurance, my salary, the internet—there’ll be another beetle, like you said. It’s easy for you, being young and savvy. I’m already halfway to Valhalla.” “But you joke like my friends and you’re barely forty…” “Why say that out loud? Just to ruin my day?” “In cat years, that’s only five,” she quipped. “You’re forgiven.” “Mum, while there’s still time, let’s hop on a train and go. There’s nothing here for us.” “I only just got them to spell our name right on the gas bill and we’re registered at the clinic here,” I protested with my last arguments. “They’ll take us anywhere with our NHS numbers. We don’t have to sell—if it doesn’t work out, we’ve somewhere to come back to. I’ll show you how to REALLY live, Mum.” “My sonographer said you’d never let me rest. Thought it was a joke—until he won bronze on ‘Britain’s Got Psychics’. Alright, we’ll go, but if it all goes wrong, promise you’ll let me come back in peace.” “Pinky swear!” “Your co-creator made that same promise at the registry office, and look how that turned out.” *** Masha and her mum skipped the county town and headed straight for London. After emptying three years’ savings, they splurged on a studio flat out in Zone 6, squeezed between a market and the bus station, and paid four months’ rent up front. The money ran low before they’d even started spending. Masha was calm and full of energy. She skipped the tedious unpacking and dove straight into the city’s creative, social, and nightlife scene. She blended in fast, mastering local slang and style as if she’d lived here forever, not just beamed in from some parallel suburb of the universe. Meanwhile, Mum lived between morning cups of herbal tea and evening chamomile. She ignored Masha’s pleas to go exploring and instead scoured job sites, only to find salaries and vacancies that made no sense together and felt like a trap. Her prediction: they’d last six months, tops, before heading home. She brushed off her daughter’s ‘modern’ criticism and landed a job as a cook at a private school, plus evenings washing dishes at a café. “Mum, you’re back at the stove round the clock! Might as well never have left. Why not retrain—become a graphic designer, a sommelier, or even a brow stylist? Ride the Tube, drink overpriced coffee, adapt!” “I’m not ready. But don’t worry about me, love—I’ll manage. Just get yourself sorted.” Masha set about fitting in: holing up in cafés on the tabs of other regional migrants, building mental and mystical ties with the city as decreed by a rune-reading blogger, and hanging out in groups where only money and ‘success’ were discussed. She wasn’t rushing into work or relationships; she and the city needed to grow into each other first. Four months in, Mum paid the rent from her own earnings, quit dishwashing and started cooking for an extra school. Masha meanwhile dropped several courses, auditioned at a local radio station, appeared as an extra in a student film where they paid her in pasta, and briefly dated two aspiring musicians—one a complete donkey, the other a family man (and a real ‘tomcat’ in every sense) who wasn’t looking to settle. *** “Mum, fancy going out tonight? Or shall we get pizza and watch a film? I’m too knackered to move,” yawned Masha, sprawled on the sofa in the ‘Queen’s gymnast pose’ as Mum did her makeup. “You order, I’ll transfer you some money—don’t worry about me, I’m not likely to be hungry when I get back.” “Back from where?” Masha sat up straight, frowning. “I’ve been invited out to dinner,” Mum replied with a shy giggle. “By who?” Masha couldn’t muster any excitement. “We had an inspection at school. I served the head of the commission your childhood-favourite meatballs. He joked about meeting the chef, and one thing led to another—we grabbed a coffee, like you always say to. Tonight I’m cooking dinner at his.” “Are you mad? Going to a stranger’s house? For dinner!” “So what?” “You know he’s not just after your lasagne, right?” “Darling. I’m forty, single, he’s forty-five, clever and not married. Honestly, I’ll be happy with whatever he expects.” “You sound like a desperate villager with no options.” “You don’t sound like my daughter. You dragged me here to LIVE, not just exist.” Masha realises they’ve swapped roles—and promptly self-medicates with an XXL pizza. Mum comes home after midnight, lit up by happiness, and sidesteps Masha’s questions. “A thoroughly British beetle—definitely not a foreign invader,” she jokes, and heads for the shower. Dates, theatres, stand-up shows, jazz concerts, book clubs, and tea clubs follow. In six months, she signs up for cooking courses, earns certificates, and learns to make complex dishes. Masha tries not to freeload and applies to posh firms. No luck—big roles keep eluding her, friends only paid for her out of novelty, so she lands a job as a barista, then later, a night bartender. The city’s grind sets in, painting insomnia circles under her eyes. No love story emerges; drunken bar guests offer blurred romance, but nothing worthy of a fairy tale. Eventually, it’s all too much. “You were right, Mum—this was a mistake. I’m sorry I dragged you here. We need to go home,” declares Masha after a rough shift, stuffing her suitcase. “Going home? Why?” Mum asks, in the middle of packing. “Back where they spell our surname right, where we belong, where we’re registered at the proper clinic. You were always right.” “I’m settled here now and don’t want to leave,” Mum says, studying her daughter’s red eyes. “I don’t care—I want out. I hate this place: the Tube, the overpriced coffee, everyone in the bar is so pretentious. Let’s just go home. You’ve packed too, haven’t you?” “I’m moving in with Jeff,” Mum suddenly reveals. “You mean, MOVING IN with him?” “I reckon you’re set now—grown up, gorgeous, working, and living in London! Opportunity here flows faster than the Thames. Thank you for bringing me. If not for you, I’d still be pining in our backwater. Here, life truly sparkles! Thank you!” Tears fall, but Masha isn’t reassured. “Mum, how will I cope? Who’s going to look after me?” “Health insurance, a steady wage, the internet—plus, you’ll find your own beetle,” Mum quips back, echoing Masha’s words. “So you’re just abandoning me?” “I’m not. You promised—no tantrums.” “Yeah, yeah… Hand me the house keys.” “They’re in my bag. But just one thing—can you help Grandma? She’s moving down too. I’ve sorted it all with her. She’s landed a job at the local post office—after forty years, she could send a letter to the North Pole and it’d get there! Time she takes a chance before her ‘roots’ dry out.”

My Son Isn’t Ready to Be a Father… “Slut! Ungrateful Pig!” shrieked her mother at Natalie at the top of her lungs. Her daughter’s rounded belly only fueled her fury. “Get out and never come back! I never want to see you again!” Natalie’s mother truly threw her out, as she had many times before for smaller infractions. But this time, when Natalie “got herself in trouble,” her mother said she was never, ever welcome again unless she straightened herself out. Drenched in tears and carrying a small suitcase, Natalie hobbled to her beloved—her utterly flustered boyfriend. It turned out Nazar hadn’t even admitted to his parents that Natalie was pregnant by him. Nazar’s mother asked at once if “something could still be done,” but it was clearly too late—Natalie’s belly was unmistakable. In complete shock, terrified for her future, Natalie was ready for anything if only someone would help. A month ago, she had fought firmly against her mother’s suggestion; now, desperation and fear had set in. “My son isn’t ready to be a father,” Nazar’s mother declared resolutely. “He’s young—you’ll ruin his life. Of course, we’ll help as we can, but for now I’ve arranged for you to stay at a rehabilitation home for unwanted pregnant girls like you.” In the centre, Natalie finally found a small room, a breath of relief. No one pestered her, and she was prepared for birth emotionally and physically, with the help of a psychologist. When the key moment came and she held a tiny bundle in her arms—a baby girl—Natalie panicked. When she calmed down and really looked at the child, she marvelled at her small, mysterious daughter. With Christmas drawing near, Natalie was told to seek new lodgings—her place was needed for someone else. With month-old Eva in her arms, Natalie sat with no idea how they’d survive, where to find money or a place to sleep. Her own mother’s heart remained frozen, refusing to acknowledge her granddaughter; she wrote them both out of her life. “What a sad Christmas Eve, darling,” Natalie whispered to Eva. She had always loved the holiday, going carolling since childhood to earn a tidy sum. Eager to recapture that warmth, she thought, “Why not? My baby is quiet, I’ll bundle her up and go sing. If people don’t open their doors, so be it.” The next day, Natalie picked a quiet residential street for her carolling. At first, people eyed such an unusual caroller suspiciously, expecting male singers as tradition. Yet in some houses, warmed by her heartfelt singing and moved by the sight of her baby, they gifted her with money and treats, understanding that misfortune, not merriment, had brought her there. Going door to door was hard. “Just that last big house—maybe I’ll get a proper gift,” she thought, feeling hopeful as her pockets grew heavy with coins, enough to feel some relief. “May I sing you a carol?” she asked when the owner welcomed her inside. But the man’s behaviour unsettled her. He stared at Natalie’s face, then at her child, grew pale, and slumped shakily onto the sofa. “Nadine?” he said, voice trembling. “What? No, I’m Natalie… you must have mistaken me for someone else.” “Natalie? You look just like my wife… and the baby—she’s a girl?” “Yes.” “I had a daughter, too. But they’re gone… a car accident. Just the other night, I dreamed they came home… Then you appeared. Is such a thing possible?” “I… I don’t know what to say…” “Please, come in. Don’t be shy. Tell me your story.” At first, Natalie feared the stranger—his emotions so raw, his reactions so strange. Yet she had nowhere else to go. She stepped into the spacious sitting room, seeing on the wall a photo of his late wife—so like herself… Natalie found herself pouring out her story, every detail. At last, someone was listening, truly interested in her. The man sat in silence, soaking in every word, glancing now and then at baby Eva, sleeping soundly and smiling in her dreams—as if she already sensed she had found a home, soon to become her own…