“It’s not his child!” screamed the mother-in-law. Then he came back with a ring in his hand… Too late.
I will never forget that evening. Even now, my whole body trembles at the memory. I had prepared for it like it was 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. Living in Manchester, renting a modest flat on the outskirts with Tom. We’d been together nearly a year. He showered me with flowers, called me “his happiness,” promised he’d always be there. I believed him. We made plans—those naive, youthful ones where love feels like the only thing you’ll ever need.
And then I said it—
“Tom… you’re going to be a dad.”
He froze. Then his face twisted.
“What? What did you just say?”
“I’m pregnant,” I repeated, voice shaking, still hoping for joy in his eyes.
But his answer was a shout. Harsh. Ugly.
“That’s not my child! Are you insane? I’m not ready for this. Get out with your bloody pregnancy!”
He slammed the door. And vanished.
I called—he didn’t answer. Then my number was blocked. I felt sick, broken, terrified. But worst of all—betrayed. Because the man I’d dreamed of a future with had become a stranger in an instant.
I tried reaching his mother. Margaret met me at the door of her house in Leeds. Didn’t even let me inside—just stood there in her dressing gown, arms crossed, eyes burning with fury.
“Go away,” she spat. “Don’t you dare meddle with my family. That child isn’t Tom’s! You’re just looking for someone to leech off. My son has other plans—he doesn’t owe you for your mistakes!”
I stood in the hallway, heart shattering. No support. No kindness. Just contempt.
But even then, I never once thought of ending the pregnancy. My baby was already part of me. *Mine*. Innocent. Why should he pay for the cowardice of adults?
Three years passed. I gave birth. Named my son Oliver. And every morning, when he opens his eyes, looks at me, and smiles, I thank fate I didn’t break. Yes, it was hard—working nights, juggling side jobs, washing clothes by hand, living off instant noodles. But Oliver is my sunshine. My everything.
Then, a few days ago… someone knocked.
There stood Tom. The same man. Different eyes. Older. Thinner.
“Can we talk?” he asked quietly.
He told me he’d been in a terrible crash. They saved him, pulled him out, but… he was sterile now. Doctors said no more children. His fiancée left—couldn’t handle it. And suddenly, he remembered me. Remembered *Oliver*. Remembered what he’d thrown away.
“I want to be there,” he said. “Marry you. Take care of you both. Raise him. Make it right.”
I stared at him and heard—like an echo—the sound of that same door slamming shut years ago. I saw his face again, twisted in betrayal. I remembered holding my belly at night, praying my baby would be healthy. The tears when Oliver first said “Mum.”
And I just… closed the door. Silently. No shouting. No blame. Because everything had already been said.
I don’t answer his calls now.
Maybe some would 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 came back only when there were no other options left.
Do you think I did the right thing, keeping him out of our lives?
