The mothers
“Good morning, mums. How’s everyone doing?” A cheerful midwife strode into the maternity ward at dawn. Crisp white coat, starched cap perched high—she looked radiant.
She stopped by the first bed, where a young mother lay curled toward the wall.
“Elison, don’t pretend to sleep. Roll onto your back. I need to check your stitches,” the midwife said firmly.
Elison reluctantly turned. Emily recognised her—they’d laboured side by side last night. The midwife leaned in, flipped back the blanket, hitched up the worn hospital gown, and pressed firm fingers into the girl’s belly.
“Perfect. They’ll bring your son for feeding soon. Ready?” She tucked the blanket back and straightened.
The girl’s eyes flew open, wide with panic.
“I won’t feed him,” she blurted.
“And why’s that?”
“Please don’t bring him. I don’t want him.” Her voice wobbled.
Elison, are you saying—” The midwife paused. “You want to give him up?”
A tiny nod. The midwife’s lips thinned.
“Right. I’ll finish rounds, then we’ll talk. Think it over.” She turned sharply and moved to Emily’s bed.
“And how are you, dear?” The midwife checked her chart. “Second baby? Shall we bring your little one for a feed?”
“Of course,” Emily said quickly.
The midwife studied her a moment, as if weighing words. Then she glanced back at Elison—still facing the wall—sighed, and left.
The door clicked shut. Emily swung her legs off the bed.
“What’s your name?” Silence. “We were in labour together. You went first. Look—why don’t you want to see your boy?”
No answer.
“My son’s five now…” Emily trailed off, then asked abruptly, “Was it the father? Did he leave? Too late for termination? Think you can’t manage alone?” The words hit Elison’s rigid back. “They say if the Lord sends a child, He’ll provide. You’ll see.”
“That baby’ll go straight to foster care. Never know his mum’s smell, her warmth. Strangers’ll rock him. He’ll search every woman’s face, wondering—is this her? But they’ll come and go. Got their own kids, see. And your boy? He’ll cry himself to sleep, calling for you.”
“Then it’s off to a children’s home. He’ll spend his life waiting. Think you’ll forget? Cross him out? Years on, you’ll regret it. And if he’s adopted—some other woman gets the name ‘Mum’—”
“Stop!” Elison’s voice cracked. “You know nothing!”
“Fair enough,” Emily said. “But no one walks away lightly. Not after labour, not after hearing that first cry. And listen—good riddance to that bloke. If he’d stay, he’d be useless. Weak men don’t love sons.”
“Married my husband at uni. Sat final exams nine months gone. Stress sent me early. Thought I’d pleased him—lads want sons, don’t they? But fatherhood never took. And me? Clueless.”
“Come home from hospital, expected a new cot, pram, tiny clothes. Got his sister’s hand-me-downs instead. Pram was shabby. ‘No money’, he said. My boy in pink vests, like some charity case.”
“Even later, when he earned proper, it was nephews’ cast-offs. My parents helped, but babies grow fast. His answer? ‘Get a job if you want frills.’ Knife to the heart. The boy was mine alone.”
“Me? Ran myself ragged. Feed, cook, walks—if he cried, nothing got done. Let myself go. Nothing fit. Husband’s eyes wandered. ‘Look at you,’ he’d say.”
“Found work when my boy turned two. Ached leaving him. Husband alive, yet I was a single mum. Then he took a loan—bought a flash car. Me? Wore threadbare dresses, ashamed.”
“Mums at the park bragged—one got diamonds, another fur. I justified him: ‘We’re young, it’s hard.’ Lies. My mum saw my clothes, bought me new ones.”
“Then I found out—he’d someone else. ‘What did you expect?’ he said. I packed our son’s things, left. He begged me back, half-hearted. Moved her in next day. Nearly broke me.”
“At the divorce, he swore—‘No formal payments, I’ll give more.’ Didn’t trust him. Wise.”
“Met someone at work. Older. Drove us to clinics. Fancied me. Took two years to say yes. Burned once…”
“New husband adored my boy. Wanted a child—his ex refused. When I got pregnant? Overjoyed. Ex-husband came sniffing—‘Joint custody!’ Threatened court. His mum rang weekly—‘Miss the lad.’”
“Then I was hospitalised. Had to let him go. My boy chattered about new toys, treats. I relaxed. Mistake.”
“Home again, rang his gran. ‘Let him stay,’ she said. Agreed—I was poorly. Then my ex brought him back. No fight. ‘Costs too much,’ he said. Mortgages, car loans…”
“Learnt the truth—he’d dumped our boy at his mum’s. Rarely visited. ‘Just gran bought toys.’”
“See? Married, but a single mum. Better no man than that.”
“First marriages fail. We rush. Seek love, not fathers. Found one second time. You’re young, pretty—you’ll manage.”
“Got baby clothes spare. Work now—buy new. Yours if you want. Milk’s free. Mum’ll help.”
Elison had turned, listening hard.
“Mum said to leave him,” she whispered.
“Rubbish. She’ll hold that baby once—love him. Trust me.”
The door opened. A nurse entered, bundle in arms.
“Here’s your girl. Know how to latch her?” Emily clutched the tiny parcel, heart swelling at the scrunched face.
“Will you bring my son?” Elison asked.
The nurse paused. “Elison? Good. I’ll fetch him.”
Emily smiled.
“I’m Lily. You’re Emily? Help me? I’m terrified,” Lily said shakily.
Minutes later, another bundle arrived. The boy latched hungrily. The women murmured, comparing babies.
Discharged together. Lily’s mum waited; Emily’s family—parents, husband, son—crowded the lobby. Numbers exchanged.
They met often—pram walks in the park, shared birthdays. Lily’s boyfriend returned; they wed.
And that? Could’ve been loss. Motherhood, love—gone.
Marriage is a lottery. No knowing what hands you’ll draw. Takes years to know a man. Sometimes a lifetime.
May every child know love.
