“He’s not our child!” said Emily, her voice trembling with suppressed frustration as she stood by the stove, irritably stirring the pasta in the pot. Her eyes flashed with anger.
“James, this can’t go on forever!” she blurted out. “He’s not ours! Just think how absurd this is!”
James slumped onto the kitchen stool and sighed heavily. “I know, love… but what can we do? Throw him out on the street? You know how Mum is…”
“And your mum—forgive me—is the reason we’re in this mess!” Emily snapped, cutting him off. “She’s the one who put us in this position!”
James just shook his head. He didn’t know what to do anymore. It had all started when his sister, Olivia, divorced her unfaithful husband. Their mother, Margaret, had been the first to insist on the divorce, calling him a disgrace. Olivia, already pregnant, was left alone. She gave birth to a boy, Daniel, but the father never showed up—not at the hospital, not afterward.
At first, Olivia managed, but then suddenly she “got tired.” She said she wanted to focus on her love life and began dating again. Little Daniel became an inconvenience. So Margaret “dropped off” her grandson at James and Emily’s—”just for two weeks,” she’d insisted. “He’s family! And you two don’t have kids yet—it’s not like he’ll be in the way.”
But two weeks turned into three months. Emily was horrified. She worked from home as a freelancer, and now she was left alone with the boy. Olivia visited less and less, always in a rush—just a quick kiss on Daniel’s head before she dashed off again. She had a new boyfriend now, some businessman from another town, who never once came upstairs—he had no interest in someone else’s child.
Emily had tried to be patient. Daniel wasn’t her son, but he was sweet, affectionate. She pitied him. He’d sit by the window, waiting for his mother, who never came.
One evening, exhausted, Emily sat at the kitchen table and whispered, “James, he’s starting to get rude. Today he said I’m not his mother and have no right to tell him what to do… And I—I’m pregnant.”
“What?” James gaped at her, stunned.
“Yes, James. We’ve wanted this for so long… but I can’t do this anymore. We’ll have our own baby. I can’t carry this weight alone.”
Two weeks later, when the test showed only one line, Emily wept. It had all been for nothing. Meanwhile, James took Daniel back to his mother, who had just retired. Margaret swore she’d manage.
But Daniel was old enough now to understand he wasn’t really wanted. Margaret couldn’t handle him—he started fights at school, his grades slipped. Then she came to Emily again, pleading.
“Please, love… he adores you. He’s only calm with you. Just let him stay for a little while longer?”
“And Olivia?”
“Olivia?” Margaret scoffed. “She’s a mother on paper. She told me she regrets having him. Her new husband doesn’t want him—they’re on the verge of divorce themselves.”
Gritting her teeth, Emily agreed. And Daniel returned. Slowly, he began smiling again. His grades improved. He and Emily chatted on the walk to school, shared jokes, had little secrets. Then one day, he hugged her tightly and whispered, “You’re my real mum. I love you. I want to stay with you and Uncle James forever.”
Emily burst into tears. She realized then how much she loved this boy—as if he had been hers all along.
Years passed. Olivia divorced again. Daniel stayed with James and Emily permanently. They became his legal guardians, then adopted him.
One evening, as Emily stood by the window, Daniel rushed up and pressed his hands to her stomach. “Mum, promise me I’ll get a little brother! I’ll protect him!”
Emily stopped breathing for a moment—then smiled. This time, the test showed two lines.
And happiness. Real happiness.
Sometimes, family isn’t about blood—it’s about who stays, loves, and chooses you every day.
