“He’s not our child!” Helen snapped. But fate had other plans.
Helen stood by the stove, angrily stirring spaghetti in a pot. Her eyes flashed with fury, her voice trembled with restrained frustration.
“Alex, this can’t go on forever!” she burst out. “He’s not ours! Just think—what sort of madness is this?”
Alexander slumped onto the kitchen stool, exhaling in defeat.
“I know, Helen… But what can we do? Throw him out on the street? You know how Mum is—”
“Your mother,” Helen cut in sharply, “is the reason we’re in this mess!”
Alexander shook his head helplessly. He was at a loss. It had all started when his sister, Emily, divorced her wayward husband. Their mother, Margaret, had been the first to insist on it—claiming such a son-in-law was a disgrace. Pregnant and alone, Emily had given birth to a boy, Oliver. His father never showed up—not at the hospital, not ever.
At first, Emily managed. Then, suddenly, she “grew tired.” She wanted a new start, she said, and began dating eagerly—Oliver became an inconvenience. That’s when Margaret “parked” her grandson with Alex and Helen—just for a fortnight, she insisted. Family helps family, after all. And since they didn’t have children of their own yet, surely it wouldn’t hurt.
But two weeks stretched into three months. Helen was stunned. She worked from home as a freelancer, left alone to care for the boy while Emily’s visits grew sporadic—quick hugs, rushed kisses to the top of his head, then gone. There was a new man in her life, successful, dignified, from another town. He never even stepped inside their flat—too busy for someone else’s child.
Helen had held her tongue. Oliver wasn’t hers, but he was sweet, affectionate. She pitied him—waiting by the window for a mother who never came.
One evening, exhausted, she sat at the kitchen table and whispered,
“Alex, he’s getting cruel… Today he said I wasn’t his mother, that I had no right to tell him what to do… And I—I’m pregnant.”
“What?” Alex stared, stunned.
“Yes. After all this time… but now I can’t take it. We’ll have our own child. I can’t carry this alone.”
Two weeks later, when the test showed a single line, Helen wept. A wasted chance. Meanwhile, Alex took Oliver back to Margaret, who had just retired. She swore she’d manage.
But Oliver was old enough now to understand no one truly wanted him. Margaret struggled—he fought at school, his grades slipped. Then she came to Helen, pleading.
“Please, Helen, he loves you… You’re the only one who calms him. Just let him stay a little longer—”
“And Emily?”
“Emily?” Margaret scoffed. “A mother in name only. She told me she regrets having him. Her new husband won’t accept him—they’re near divorce themselves.”
Clenching her jaw, Helen agreed. Oliver returned. He smiled again, his grades improved. He and Helen chatted on the way to school, shared jokes and secrets. Then one day, he threw his arms around her and whispered,
“You’re my real mum. I love you. I want to stay with you and Uncle Alex forever.”
Helen broke down, sobbing. She realized then—she loved this boy as if he had always been hers.
Years passed. Emily divorced. Oliver stayed with Alex and Helen for good. They filed for custody, then adoption.
One evening, as Helen stood by the window, Oliver pressed his ear to her stomach.
“Mum, promise I’ll have a little brother,” he said. “I’ll protect him.”
Helen held her breath—and smiled. This time, there were two lines on the test. And happiness. Real happiness.
