The air in the maternity ward was thick with antiseptic and exhaustion when the midwife swept in, her crisp white cap perched like a halo above tired eyes. “Morning, mums,” she chimed, clipboard tapping against her starched coat. “Let’s see how we’re getting on, shall we?”
She moved to the leftmost bed where a girl lay curled toward the peeling wallpaper. “Emma Dawson, stop pretending to sleep. Roll onto your back—I need to check your stitches.” The girl obeyed, wincing as the midwife lifted her thin hospital gown and pressed cold fingers to her abdomen. “Good. They’ll bring your boy for feeding soon. Ready?” she asked, tucking the blanket back with practised efficiency.
Emma’s eyes flew open, wild as a spooked mare. “I don’t want him,” she whispered, voice cracking.
The midwife paused. “Come again?”
“Please don’t bring him. I can’t—” Her fingers twisted the sheets.
“Christ, Emma. You’re refusing your own child?” The midwife’s frown deepened when Emma nodded. “Right. I’ll finish my rounds, then we’ll talk. Think hard.” She turned sharply to the next bed, where Katherine sat propped against stiff pillows. “And how’s our second-time mum? Ready for baby?”
“Absolutely,” Katherine said, too quickly. The midwife studied her, then glanced back at Emma—now a small, silent lump facing the wall—before sighing and vanishing into the corridor.
The moment the door clicked shut, Katherine swung her legs over the bed’s edge. “You’re Emma, yeah? We were in labour together last night—you went just before me.” Silence. Katherine ploughed on. “Look, I don’t mean to pry, but why refuse your boy? Was it the father? Did he bolt? Too late for termination?” She spoke to the rigid line of Emma’s spine. “They say if God gives a child, He’ll provide. You’ll see.”
Emma remained statue-still.
“Your baby’ll go to foster care,” Katherine continued softly. “Strangers will rock him, feed him. He’ll search their faces, wondering which one’s his mum. Then off to a children’s home. He’ll spend his life waiting for you to come back. Think you’ll forget him? One day, you’ll regret this. And if someone adopts him—”
“Stop it!” Emma’s voice was a frayed rope. “You don’t know me!”
“True,” Katherine admitted. “But no one endures labour just to walk away. And sod that bloke—if he left, he’s weak. Better now than later.” She shifted, the vinyl mattress creaking. “I married my first at uni. Sat final exams nine months gone, nerves sending me into labour early. Thought I’d pleased him—men want sons, don’t they? But fatherhood never took. Truth be told, I was a mess too.
“We came home to hand-me-downs: his sister’s old crib, a pram held together with duct tape. Even when he earned proper money, it was nephews’ outgrown jumpers. My parents helped, but kids outgrow everything. ‘Stop spoiling him,’ he’d say. ‘You’ll buy new when you work.’ As if our son was my hobby, not his blood.
“He needled me daily for not working. But between feeds, nappies, and a colicky baby, I barely showered. Piled on weight, stuffed into stained leggings. Useless talking to him—he’d just eye other women. Found out he’d been shagging his secretary. ‘Look at you,’ he’d sneer. Took our boy and moved in with my parents. The wanker had his mistress in our flat by week’s end.”
Katherine laughed, sharp as broken glass. “Tried wooing me back—said he’d pay more than court-ordered child support. Lies. Then I met Daniel. Older. Drove us to the paediatrician once or twice. Took two years to trust him. He’s proper with my Liam—always wanted kids. Ex-wife refused.
“When I got pregnant again, my ex turned up demanding shared custody. Then I landed on bed rest. Let Liam stay with him for a fortnight. Phone calls were all Lego and ice cream. Thought it was fine.
“Then Daniel fetched him. My ex couldn’t hack the costs—kids bleed money, don’t they? Mortgage, car payments…” Katherine’s grin was feral. “Liam said he saw his dad twice in two weeks. Just Gran and her custard creams.
“Point is, better no man than a bad one. You’re young. You’ll manage. I’ve boxes of baby clothes—Liam outgrew them faster than I could wash ’em. And your mum’ll come round once she holds that baby.”
Emma had turned now, cheeks streaked. “Mum’s the one who said to leave him here.”
“Bollocks. She’ll sob the second she smells his head.”
The door swung open. A nurse bustled in with a bundle. “Right, Katherine—here’s your girl. Remember how to latch her?”
Katherine cradled the tiny face, heart lurching at the rosebud mouth.
“Will—will you bring my son?” Emma’s voice was small.
The nurse blinked. “Emma Dawson? That’s more like it. Back in a tick.”
Katherine beamed as Emma—no, *Lisa*—fumbled with the name swap. “I’m Lisa. You’re Katherine? Help me? I’m terrified.”
Minutes later, Lisa’s arms were full of squirming life, her boy’s mouth rooted to her breast like he’d known her forever.
They left hospital together: Lisa met by a stiff-lipped mother, Katherine by Daniel and Liam, his small arms sticky with sweets. Numbers were exchanged. Pushchair walks in Regent’s Park became rituals; first birthdays shared over Victoria sponge. Lisa’s boyfriend slunk back, ring in pocket.
All this, Katherine would think, watching Lisa’s boy chase Liam through daffodils. All this, nearly lost to fear.
Marriage is a scratch card—never know if you’ve won till the gloss rubs off. Takes years to know a man. Sometimes a lifetime.
But every baby deserves love. However it comes.
