“Mums”
The cheerful midwife swept into the maternity ward at dawn, her starched cap perched neatly atop her head, her white coat crisp. She shone like morning itself.
“Morning, mums! How are we feeling?” Her voice was bright as she approached the first bed by the door, where a young mother lay turned toward the wall.
“Wilson—stop pretending to sleep. Roll onto your back, I need to check your stitches,” she said firmly.
Wilson obeyed, reluctantly shifting. Katy recognized her—they’d labored through the night together. The midwife leaned in, peeling back the thin hospital blanket and lifting the worn gown, pressing gently against the young woman’s belly.
“Looking good. They’ll bring your son in soon for feeding. Ready?” She straightened up, smoothing the blanket back into place.
The new mother’s eyes flew open, wide with panic.
“I don’t want to feed him,” she whispered.
“Why ever not?”
“Please don’t bring him. I can’t.” Her voice was raw.
Midwife Bennett studied her. “Don’t tell me you’re refusing him?” Wilson nodded once. The midwife sighed. “I’ll finish rounds, then we’ll talk. Think about it.” She turned sharply and moved to Katy’s bedside.
“And how are you, love? Second time’s easier, eh?” Her hands were efficient, checking. “You’ll want your little one brought in, I assume?”
“Of course,” Katy said quickly.
The midwife hesitated, glancing back at Wilson, now curled toward the wall again, then left without another word.
When the door clicked shut, Katy sat up.
“Your name’s Wilson, right? I’m Katy. We were in labor together.” Silence. Katy pressed on. “Why don’t you want to see your baby?”
Still nothing.
“My boy’s five now,” Katy mused. Then, abruptly: “Was it the father? Left you high and dry? Too late for termination? Think you can’t manage alone?” She spoke to the rigid line of Wilson’s back. “They say if the Lord gives a child, He’ll provide. You’ll see.”
“If you refuse him, he’ll go to foster care. Never know your warmth, your smell. Strangers will rock him. He’ll search their faces, hoping one’s you. But they’ll come and go—they’ve their own kids. He’ll cry for you. Then it’s children’s homes. He’ll spend his life waiting.”
“You think you’ll forget? Cut him from your heart? One day you’ll regret it. And if he’s adopted—some other woman will be ‘Mum’—”
“Shut up!” Wilson’s voice cracked. “You know nothing!”
“True,” Katy admitted. “But no one walks away from their baby without reason. Not after labor, not after hearing them cry.” She paused. “If he left you, good riddance. Weak men don’t love. You can be a lone parent even with a husband.”
She told her own story then—how she’d married at uni, sat finals hugely pregnant, delivered early. Her husband had wanted a son but never stepped up. Hand-me-downs from cousins, a battered pram, complaints about money.
She went back to work when the baby was two, heart breaking. Her husband bought a flash car instead of clothes for their boy. She’d shrunk into herself, worn threadbare dresses while other mums showed off diamonds and fur coats.
Then the mistress.
“*Look at you*,” he’d sneered.
She left. He barely fought for her. Moved his girlfriend in the next day.
Later, she met someone kinder. A man who drove her and little Alfie to doctor’s visits. It took years to trust again, but they married. When she fell pregnant, her ex suddenly wanted custody—two weeks on, two weeks off. Threatened court.
Then, just as suddenly—returned Alfie. “Too expensive,” he’d grumbled.
Katy smiled now. “First marriages often fail. We rush in blind. But you—you’re young. Lovely. You’ll manage. I’ll help—I’ve boxes of baby clothes.”
Wilson finally turned to face her.
“Mum told me to leave him here,” she confessed.
“Nonsense. She’ll hold that baby once and melt. Watch.”
The door creaked open. A nurse bustled in with a tiny bundle.
“Here’s your girl, Mrs. Harris. Know how to latch her?”
Katy cradled her daughter, breath catching at the scrunched pink face.
“Will you bring my son?” Wilson’s voice was small.
The nurse blinked. “You’re Wilson? Right—I’ll fetch him.”
Katy grinned.
“I’m Alice,” the girl whispered as another bundle was placed in her arms. “Help me? I’m terrified.”
Alice’s baby rooted greedily at her breast. The two women chatted softly, studying their children.
They were discharged together. Alice’s mum waited outside; Katy’s parents and new husband stood with Alfie by the lifts. They swapped numbers.
Soon, they were pushing prams through Hyde Park together. Katy doled out advice. They celebrated first birthdays with cake. Alice’s boyfriend came back—they wed.
“See?” Katy said later. “She nearly threw it all away.”
Marriage is a lottery ticket. You never know what kind of father or husband you’ll get. It takes years—sometimes a lifetime—to really know someone.
May every child have love.
