“Dont look at me like that! I dont need this child. Take it!” a stranger shoved a baby carrier into my arms before I could even react. The world spun, and I stood there frozen, clutching the bundle while my mind struggled to catch up.
My husband and I had always been happy together, barely a cross word between us. We married young, still students, full of dreams. Soon after, our twin girls arrived, and later, we started a small business. I helped when I could, but mostly I stayed homecooking, cleaning, raising the children. Cooking was my joy. Every weekend, Id whip up something new, and my husband would taste it first, grinning like a boy at Christmas. The girls would hover, noses twitching, eager to see what Mum had made. With all thatthe house, the work, the childrenI never once thought to question what he did when he wasnt home.
The past year had been hard. Business slumped, money tightened. My husband traveled more, chasing contracts across the country. The girls started school, and I stayed behind, holding things together.
Then, one evening, as we pulled into the drive, a woman stepped out of nowheretall, sharp-faced, eyes burning. Before I could speak, she thrust the carrier at me.
“Dont stare! I dont want this child if he wont have me. Take it!” Her finger jabbed toward my husband, her voice raw as winter wind.
I stood dumbstruck, the weight in my arms real yet impossible.
“You swore youd leave her!” she spat, the words like glass on stone. “If you wont, then I wont keep it!” With that, she turned and vanished into the dusk.
I didnt have to ask. The look on my husbands face told me everything. Inside, the babya boy, barely two weeks oldlay quiet, unknowing.
“Fetch the girls from school,” I said, my voice steady in a way I didnt feel. “And buy what I list for him.” He nodded, silent.
Eighteen years passed. Friends whisperedwhy raise another womans child when I had my own? But I never asked about her. The boy was mine in every way that mattered. The girls adored their little brother, and when he was old enough, we told him the truth. He took it quietly, never asking about her.
Then, on his eighteenth birthday, as we gatheredthe girls grown now, married, living their own livesthe doorbell rang. A shadow stood there, gaunt, familiar.
“Ive come for my son,” she said.
“He isnt yours,” my son answered before I could, shutting the door softly, firmly.
At the table, laughter rose again, and though my eyes stung, my heart was full. He was my son, in every way that counted.
