He kicked me out, blaming me for our child’s illness: “You’re not a mother, you’re a curse.”
“What the hell have you done?! You made our child sick! Get out! Now! I don’t wanna see you in this house another second!” he shouted, his voice boiling over with rage, no doubt left in it—just pure accusation.
That was how Jack drew the line. Not in an argument—but in our family.
He was convinced: everything wrong with our son was my fault. The fever, the cough, the tears—all because of me, apparently. Like I was a terrible mum, like I hadn’t been careful enough, like I was “always getting it wrong.” And there was no changing his mind. He wouldn’t listen, didn’t want to.
I pressed myself against the hallway wall while he stormed around the flat, slamming cupboard doors, furiously packing our baby’s things. In the other room, our little boy lay burning up, drowsy, weak. I’d spent the whole night with him, keeping him hydrated, bringing his fever down, not leaving his side once. And now?—”Get out.”
Once Jack had finally settled our son, he came back to me. His face was stone. His eyes were ice.
“Why are you still here? I told you to leave. You can forget about the kid. He doesn’t need a mum 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 do better, be better. Begged him to stop. But he wasn’t hearing it.
“You’re just in the way. You’re only hurting him, Emily,” he said—like a gunshot. “I’ve already made up my mind.”
He packed my bag. Silently opened the door. And pointed the way out.
I don’t remember how I ended up on the street. Everything blurred. It was freezing, my hands shook, and all I could hear in my head was, “I left my son… He’s ripped me out of my own child’s life.”
Jack didn’t pick up the next day. Or the week after. He blocked me everywhere.
I texted, called his mum, begged just to see my boy—even for five minutes. But no one answered. It was like I’d stopped existing.
I’m his mother. I carried him for nine months. I brought him into this world, sang him lullabies, held him through sleepless nights, cradled him when his teeth hurt.
And now? I’m “nothing.”
Jack decided he had the right to take my child away. Not a court, not social services. Just a man who was furious because our kid caught a cold.
And I really wasn’t to blame. It was just a normal cold! Autumn, draughts, nursery germs—kids sneezing everywhere. But for Jack, it was an excuse. A way to finish it. To blame me.
I don’t know how this ends. But I won’t give up. I’ll find a way. If it takes court, if it takes years—I will get my son back.
Because I’m his mum. And being a mum isn’t a temporary job—it’s for life. Even when your whole life gets shut out behind a locked door.
