“It’s not his child!” screamed the mother-in-law. Then he returned with a ring in his hand… Too late.
I’ll never forget that evening. Even now, my whole body trembles at the memory. I had prepared for it like a celebration—candles, a light salad, his favorite roasted salmon, white wine. And most importantly, the news. The biggest news of my life.
I was only nineteen then. I lived in Bristol, renting a modest flat on the outskirts with Ethan. We’d been together nearly a year. He showered me with flowers, called me “his joy,” promised he’d always stay. I believed him. We made plans—those naïve, youthful kind, where love seems like all you’ll ever need.
So I told him:
“Ethan, you’re going to be a dad…”
He froze. Then his face twisted.
“What? What did you say?”
“I’m pregnant,” I repeated, my voice trembling, still hoping for joy in his eyes.
But his response was a shout. Harsh, angry.
“That’s not my child! Are you mad? I’m not ready for this. Get rid of it!”
He slammed the door. And vanished.
I called—he didn’t answer. Then my number was blocked. I felt ill, broken, terrified. But worst of all? Hurt. Because the man I’d dreamed a future with became a stranger in an instant.
I tried reaching his mother. Eleanor Whitmore met me at her doorstep in Manchester. Didn’t even let me inside—just stood there in a dressing gown, arms crossed, eyes burning.
“Leave,” she hissed. “Don’t you dare meddle with my family. That child isn’t Ethan’s! You’re just looking for someone to mooch off. My son has plans—he doesn’t owe you anything!”
I stood in that hallway, feeling my heart shatter. No kindness. No faith. Nothing but hatred.
But even then, I never once thought of ending the pregnancy. My child was already here, inside me. Mine. Innocent. Why should they pay for grown-ups’ cowardice?
Three years passed. I gave birth. Named my boy Lucas. And every morning, when he opens his eyes, smiles at me, I thank fate I didn’t break. Yes, it was hard. Night shifts, odd jobs, hand-washing clothes, living off pasta. But Lucas—he’s my sun. My everything.
Then, a few days ago… the doorbell rang.
There stood Ethan. The same man. But older. Weaker.
“Can we talk?” he whispered.
He told me about a terrible crash. Doctors saved him, but… he’d never have children now. His fiancée left when she found out. And then he remembered me. And Lucas. And how he’d “thrown it all away.”
“I want to be there,” he said. “Marry you. Care for you both. Raise Lucas. Make it right.”
I looked at him and heard, deep inside, the echo of that door he’d once slammed. I saw his face—twisted in disgust the night he betrayed me. I remembered clutching my belly, praying my baby would be healthy. Crying in the dark when Lucas first said “Mummy.” And so… I shut the door. Quietly. No shouting. No blame. Because everything had already been said.
I don’t answer his calls anymore.
Some might say I should forgive. Give him a chance. But I have a son. And he deserves a father who loved him from his first breath. Not one who only comes back when there’s nothing left.
So tell me—did I do the right thing, keeping him out of our lives?
