“Hello… Is that you, Vasya? – No, this is Olena… – Olena? Who are you? – Excuse me, but who are you? I’m Vasyl’s girlfriend. Is there something you wanted?… Your husband isn’t here, he’s held up at work… My head started spinning, I noticed drops of red on the floor. A sharp pain gripped my stomach—I could barely move… I knew the baby was about to arrive. My husband Vasyl has spent the last five years working abroad—first driving lorries in Germany, then working in renovations in Poland. He left for money’s sake. We have two sons and always wanted to give them the best future. We realised we’d get nowhere if we stayed in England. You know, life there started looking up for my husband. Each month he’d send us food parcels—canned goods, pasta, oil, sweets—and deposit money in my account so I could put it aside and earn some interest. We managed to save enough to buy our elder son a flat. It seemed everything was perfect. But a few months ago, something felt off in my body. I thought it was the menopause, but the signs pointed elsewhere—I gained weight, was constantly sleepy and hungry, and my moods kept swinging. All the online advice screamed ‘pregnant.’ Pregnant at 45? I doubted it, until two bright lines appeared on the test stick. I didn’t want to tell my sons or daughters-in-law about the baby. What for? So they could laugh and call me mad for having a child at my age? I decided to hide the pregnancy—luckily, with winter approaching, big, warm coats disguised my growing belly. I didn’t want to have this baby. Some might say I’ve no faith, but I’m 45, no longer young. I already have sons and grandchildren—I want to devote myself to them, not nappies. Plus, we can’t afford another child—Vasyl would have to go abroad again, but I can’t cope without him. Doctors said it was too late and risky for an operation—I might not survive. So I convinced myself all would be well. Maybe, I thought, Vasyl would be delighted about the new baby. I decided to ring him on Skype and share my news, only turning on the mic, not the camera. “Hello, Vasyl…” “This isn’t Vasyl. It’s Olena.” “Olena? Who are you?” “Excuse me, who are you? I’m Vasyl’s girlfriend. Did you want something? Your husband isn’t here, he’s still at work.” I hung up and burst into tears. Turns out, a man can betray you anywhere, with anyone. I wanted to file for divorce and throw out all his things. But in my heart, I hoped my husband would return when he heard about the baby. He was due home in February for the boys’ birthdays and had arranged time off. I even dreamt we’d walk in the park, Vasyl holding our daughter’s hand and me holding the other. He arrived on Valentine’s Day. I prepared a romantic dinner, lit candles, played music—created a cosy atmosphere. “Vasyl, I’ve got a surprise for you. I’m pregnant. They say it’s a girl.” “You wretch!” my husband shouted. He turned red with rage, flipped the plates onto the floor, pounded on the table. “So while I’m working like a horse, you’re sleeping with other men? Now you want to saddle me with some bastard?” “Vasyl, let me explain…” “Get away, I don’t want to see you!” He shoved me and my stomach struck the table’s edge. I collapsed. Vasyl stormed out, grabbed his bag, and slammed the door. My head spun, I saw red droplets on the floor. My stomach cramped with pain, and I could barely call for an ambulance. The baby was coming. When the paramedics arrived, I was already holding our daughter. She lay quietly in my arms, not crying, fast asleep. “So, Mum, are you coming with us?” “No. Take the baby. I don’t want her.” “What do you mean?” “I said, take her! This child has destroyed my family! Maybe someone will love her, but it won’t be me. Please, just take her away—I don’t want to see her.” With no regrets, I handed the baby to the medic. They checked me over—no tears, a smooth delivery. Once the ambulance left, I cleaned the house, showered, and went to bed. None of my children know I gave my daughter away. Every day I go to church and pray she’ll grow up healthy and find a loving family, because I know I can’t cope. I don’t want the burdens of motherhood again. I only wish for Vasyl to return home, but he’s back in Germany and only speaks to our sons. Call me mad if you want, but I’m choosing my husband over my child. God will judge me.

11 February

I picked up the phone, hands trembling, dialling Toms mobile. Hello Tom
It isnt Tom. Its Sophie
Sophie? Who are you?
Excuse me, but who are you? Im Toms girlfriend. What did you want? Hes not here hes staying late at work.

My head spun as I heard her voice. Glancing down, I noticed scattered droplets of crimson across the kitchen tiles. My stomach was gripped by a deep, twisting pain that doubled me over. I could feel, somehow in my bones, that my baby was about to arrive.

My husband Tom has spent the last five years traveling for work. One year driving lorries through Germany, then months in Poland overseeing home renovations always chasing money. We have two grown sons and weve tried to give them every opportunity, certain that here in England, it would never be enough.

Its odd, but sometimes fortune favoured us abroad. Tom sent home hampers each month, full of preserves, pasta, bottles of oil and chocolates. Hed deposit pounds into my account, urging me to invest and save. Eventually, we managed to scrape together enough for our eldests first flat in Birmingham.

On the surface, it seemed like wed finally found some peace. Yet, a few months ago, something felt strange inside me. At first, I thought menopause surely, but it wasnt. Id gained weight, felt exhausted constantly, ate like a horse, and my moods shifted with the wind. Every online symptom checker shouted pregnancy. Pregnant at forty-five? I didnt believe it until the test revealed two bold red lines.

I told no one not my sons, nor their wives. For what reason? To be mocked? To hear my own children joke that their mother had lost her senses in her old age? No, I kept it secret. Winter was coming, so I wrapped up in heavy coats and cardigans. Nobody could see my growing bump.

But I didnt want another child, and perhaps Ill be accused of lacking faith. At forty-five, Im not a young woman anymore. My time should be spent with my sons and grandchildren, not running around after nappies. We simply dont have enough money for a third child. Tom would have to go abroad again, and I cant bear coping without him.

When I went to the clinic, they told me it was too late too risky for a termination. Who knew what harm it might do? I tried to convince myself that everything would be alright. Maybe Tom would actually welcome a new baby. I decided I had to tell him. I rang through on Skype, voice only, too scared to show my face.

Hello Tom
Its Sophie.
Sophie? Who are you?
Im Toms girlfriend. Hes not here, working late.

I dropped the call and sobbed uncontrollably. It hits you sometimes your husband could betray you, anywhere and with anyone. I was ready to file for divorce, throw Toms clothes on the lawn and erase him from my life.

Still, somewhere deep down, a tiny hope remained. Maybe hed come home to us when he found out about the baby. I knew hed be back in February for the boys birthdays a rare holiday. Id dreamt of us all walking through the park together, Tom holding our daughters hand on one side and me on the other.

Valentines Day arrived. Tom came home. I cooked a romantic supper, lit candles, played our old favourite songs. I tried to make everything perfect.

Tom, Ive got a surprise for you. Im pregnant. They say its a girl.
He went red with fury, flipping plates onto the floor and pounding his fists on the table.
So while Im slogging away like a horse, youre off with another bloke? And now you expect me to take on this bastard child?
Tom, please, let me explain
Go away, I dont want to see you! He shoved me so hard I crashed into the sharp corner of the table and collapsed.

Tom grabbed his bag and slammed the door as he left. The pain was unbearable; crimson drops pooled on the floor and I doubled up in agony. Somehow I managed to ring for an ambulance, convinced the baby was coming.

When the paramedics arrived, I was already cradling our baby girl. She was calm, silent, deep in sleep.

Ready to come with us, Mum?
No. Take the child. I dont want her.
What do you mean?
Take her. This baby has wrecked my family. Maybe someone else will love her, but I cant. Just please take her!

Without hesitation or guilt, I placed my daughter into the arms of the medic. They checked me over at home no tears, no drama, the birth was simple. When they left, I tidied up, showered and went to bed.

Nobody knows about my daughter, not even my sons. Every day I walk to church, praying shell grow up healthy and loved, that she finds a family. I know I cant cope, and I refuse to relive motherhood again. I wish only for Toms return. But hes gone back to Germany, speaking only to the boys.

Call me mad, if you must. But I chose my husband, not another child. Only God can judge me.