**Diary Entry 15th May**
My name is Emily, and Im 28. For nearly ten years now, Ive raised my son, Oliver, alone. His father, James, passed away suddenly when Oliver was just a babya heart condition no one saw coming. He was only 23.
We were so young when we found out I was pregnant. Terrified. Thrilled. Hopelessly unprepared. But we loved each other deeply, fiercely. James proposed the night we first heard Olivers heartbeat, that tiny, insistent rhythm changing everything. We didnt have muchhe was a struggling musician, and I worked nights at a café while finishing my A-levels. But we had dreams. Hope. More love than we knew what to do with. Thats why losing him broke me. One day, he was composing a lullaby for our son; the next, he was gone.
After the funeral, I moved in with a friend and poured everything into Oliver. Hand-me-down clothes, lumpy porridge, bedtime stories read by torchlight. There were scraped knees, nightmares, laughter, and so many quiet reassurances. To me, our little life was something precious. But to my familyespecially my mother, Margaretit was never enough.
To her, I was the cautionary tale: the girl who chose passion over prudence. Even after James died, her disapproval never wavered. She frowned when I didnt remarry, as if my life were a problem to be fixed. Single motherhood, in her eyes, wasnt resilienceit was shame.
Meanwhile, my sister Charlotte? She did everything right. Met her husband at uni, had a fairy-tale wedding, bought a tidy semi in Surrey. Naturally, she was the golden child. And I was the stain on the familys perfect image.
Still, when Charlotte invited Oliver and me to her baby shower, I let myself hope. Her note even said, *Id love for us to be close again.* I clung to those words.
Oliver was thrilled. He insisted on choosing the gift himself: a hand-knitted baby blanket Id stayed up nights making and his favourite childhood book, *Guess How Much I Love You*. Every baby should know theyre loved, he said. He even made a card with crayon scribbles and a wonky drawing of a baby wrapped in stars.
The shower was all champagne flutes and bunting, a banner reading *Welcome, Baby William.* Charlotte looked radiant in a floral maternity dress. She hugged us warmly, and for a moment, I dared to believe things might change.
Then Mum stood for her toast.
Im so proud of Charlotte, she announced, glass raised. She did things properlywaited for marriage, built a stable home. This baby will want for nothing. *Including a father.*
Eyes darted to me. My cheeks burned.
Aunt Patricianever one to hold her tonguechimed in with a smirk. Unlike her sisters *bastard*.
The word hit like a slap. Silence thickened the air. No one spokenot Charlotte, not my cousins. No one defended me.
Except Oliver.
Hed been swinging his legs beside me, clutching a small gift bag labelled *For Nan.* Before I could stop him, he stood, calm as anything, and walked to Mum.
Nan, he said, holding out the bag, Dad wanted you to have this.
The room stilled.
Mum, bewildered, opened it. Inside was a photo I hadnt seen in yearsJames and me in our cramped flat, his hand on my swollen belly. We were grinning, so alive. Beneath it was a letterJamess handwriting. A note hed written before his surgery, just in case. Id tucked it away and forgotten. Oliver must have found it.
Mum read it silently, her face draining of colour.
Jamess words were plain but piercing. He wrote of his love for me, his dreams for Oliver, his pride in the family wed made. *If youre reading this, I didnt make it,* hed written. *But know this: our son isnt a mistake. Hes a gift. And Emilyshes more than enough.*
Oliver looked up at her. He loved me. He loved Mum. So Im not a mistake.
No shouting. No tears. Just truth.
The room shattered.
Mum clutched the letter, hands shaking. I rushed to Oliver, pulling him close, tears hot in my eyes. My boymy brave, brilliant boyhad faced them all with nothing but quiet grace.
Charlotte was crying. My cousin lowered her phone, stunned. The room held its breath.
I turned to Mum. You dont get to speak about my son like that. Ever again. My voice didnt waver. You ignored him because you hated how he came to be. But hes not a mistake. Hes the best thing Ive ever done.
Mum said nothing. Just stood there, small and silent.
I glanced at Charlotte. Congratulations. I hope your child knows every kind of lovethe kind that stays. The kind that fights.
She nodded, tearful. Im sorry, Emily. I shouldve spoken up.
Oliver and I left, hand in hand. I didnt look back.
In the car, he leaned against me. Are you cross I gave her the letter?
I kissed his forehead. No, love. Im so proud of you.
That night, I dug out an old shoeboxphotos, notes, hospital wristbands. Finally, I let myself grieve: not just for James, but for the years Id spent begging for approval. Olivers courage showed me I never needed it.
The next morning, Mum texted: *That was uncalled for.*
I didnt reply.
But thensomething shifted. My cousin messaged, saying shed never understood before. An old school friend sent a voice note: *You made me feel less alone.* Even Charlotte reached out, apologising, wanting our children to grow up close.
I started therapynot to fix myself, but to heal. To grow.
Im not perfect. Ive stumbled. But Im not ashamed anymore. Im a mother. A fighter. And Oliver? Hes my proofof love, of strength, of a heart that refuses to break.
That day, he stood in a room of adults and said, *I matter.* And in doing so, he gave me my voice back.
Now, I speak clearer. Stand firmer. Love fiercer.
Because Im not just a single mum.
Im *his* mum.
And thats everything.
