**Diary Entry**
Emma stood by the stove, stirring the pasta in the pot with irritation. Her eyes flashed with anger, and her voice trembled with suppressed frustration.
“James, this can’t go on forever!” she burst out. “He isn’t our child! Just think about how absurd this is!”
James dropped onto a stool and sighed heavily.
“I know, love… but what can we do? Throw him out? You know how Mum is…”
“And your mum—forgive me—is the reason we’re in this mess!” Emma snapped.
James just shook his head. He didn’t know what to do anymore. It had all started when his sister, Sophie, divorced her unreliable husband. Their mother, Margaret, had been the first to insist—said a man like that was a disgrace. Sophie, already pregnant, was left alone. She gave birth to a boy, Oliver, but his father never showed up—not at the hospital, not ever.
At first, Sophie managed, but then she suddenly “grew tired of it.” Said she wanted her life back. Started dating again, and little Oliver got in the way. So Margaret “parked” her grandson with James and Emma—”just for a fortnight,” she’d said. They didn’t have children yet, after all.
But two weeks turned into three months. Emma was furious. She worked from home as a freelancer, left alone with the boy while Sophie visited less and less—just a quick kiss on his head before rushing off. She had a new beau now, some businessman from another city. He never once stepped inside their flat—had no interest in another man’s child.
Emma held her tongue at first. Oliver, though not hers, was sweet and affectionate. She pitied him. He waited by the window for his mum, who never came.
One evening, exhausted, Emma sat at the kitchen table and whispered,
“James… he’s starting to act out. Today he said I wasn’t his mother and had no right to tell him what to do. And I… I’m pregnant.”
“What?” James was stunned.
“Yes. We’ve been waiting for this… but I can’t do it alone. Not like this.”
Two weeks later, when the test showed negative, Emma wept. All for nothing. Meanwhile, James took Oliver back to his own mother, who had just retired. Margaret swore she could handle it.
But Oliver was at that age where he understood no one really wanted him. Margaret struggled—he started fights at school, his grades slipped. Then she came to Emma, pleading.
“Emma, he loves you… Only with you does he ever settle. Please, just let him stay for a little while?”
“And Sophie?”
“Sophie? She’s a mother on paper. Told me she regrets having Oliver. Her new husband doesn’t want him, they’re nearly divorced themselves…”
Emma gritted her teeth—and agreed. Oliver came back. He smiled again. His schoolwork improved. He and Emma chatted on the way to school, shared inside jokes, had secrets. Then once, he hugged her tight and whispered,
“You’re my real mum. I love you. I want to stay with you and Uncle James forever.”
Emma burst into tears. She realised then—she loved this boy as fiercely as if he’d been hers from the start.
Years passed. Sophie divorced. Oliver stayed with James and Emma—first under guardianship, then adoption.
One day, as Emma stood by the window, Oliver ran up and pressed his face to her stomach.
“Mum, promise me I’ll have a little brother! I’ll protect him!”
Emma held her breath—then smiled. This time… two lines. And happiness. Real happiness.
*Looking back, life doesn’t always give us what we expect—but sometimes, it gives us exactly what we need.*
