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, our child is sick! Get out! Now! I don’t want to see you in this house anymore!” he shouted, his voice dripping with fury, not a shred of doubt. Only accusation.
That was how Jack ended it. Not the argument—our family.
He was certain: everything wrong with our son was my fault. The fever, the cough, the tears—all because of me. I was a terrible mother, careless, always “doing everything wrong.” No reasoning with him. He wouldn’t listen, didn’t want to.
I pressed myself against the hallway wall as he stormed through the flat, slamming cupboards, furiously rearranging our son’s things. In the other room, our boy lay burning with fever, drowsy and weak. I’d spent the whole night by his side, soothing him, bringing down his temperature, never leaving. And now—”get out.”
Once Jack had settled him, he turned to me. His face was cold, his eyes frozen with resolve.
“Why are you still here? I told you—leave. Forget about our son. 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. He didn’t listen.
“You only get in the way. You only hurt him, Emily,” he said, like a gunshot. “I’ve made up my mind.”
He packed my bag. Silently opened the door. Pointed the way out.
I don’t remember how I ended up on the street. Everything blurred. My hands shook in the cold, my head pounding with one thought: “I left my son… He’s cut me out of his life.”
Jack didn’t answer his phone the next day. Or the week after. He blocked me everywhere.
I texted, called his mother, pleaded just to see my child. No one responded. Like I’d ceased to exist.
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 ached.
And now—I’m “no one.”
Jack decided he had the right to take my child. No court, no authorities. Just a man angry that our boy caught a cold.
I wasn’t even at fault. It was just a cold. Autumn draughts, nursery bugs—normal things. But for Jack, it was an excuse. A final blow. A reason to blame.
I don’t know how this ends. But I won’t give up. I’ll find a way. Through courts, through years—I’ll get my son back.
Because I’m his mother. And motherhood isn’t a temporary role. It’s for life. Even when your life is left behind a locked door.
Some doors are meant to be broken. And some love refuses to be erased.
