My Son Isn’t Ready to Be a Father… “Slut! Ungrateful Pig!” shrieked her mother at Natalie at the top of her lungs. Her daughter’s rounded belly only fueled her fury. “Get out and never come back! I never want to see you again!” Natalie’s mother truly threw her out, as she had many times before for smaller infractions. But this time, when Natalie “got herself in trouble,” her mother said she was never, ever welcome again unless she straightened herself out. Drenched in tears and carrying a small suitcase, Natalie hobbled to her beloved—her utterly flustered boyfriend. It turned out Nazar hadn’t even admitted to his parents that Natalie was pregnant by him. Nazar’s mother asked at once if “something could still be done,” but it was clearly too late—Natalie’s belly was unmistakable. In complete shock, terrified for her future, Natalie was ready for anything if only someone would help. A month ago, she had fought firmly against her mother’s suggestion; now, desperation and fear had set in. “My son isn’t ready to be a father,” Nazar’s mother declared resolutely. “He’s young—you’ll ruin his life. Of course, we’ll help as we can, but for now I’ve arranged for you to stay at a rehabilitation home for unwanted pregnant girls like you.” In the centre, Natalie finally found a small room, a breath of relief. No one pestered her, and she was prepared for birth emotionally and physically, with the help of a psychologist. When the key moment came and she held a tiny bundle in her arms—a baby girl—Natalie panicked. When she calmed down and really looked at the child, she marvelled at her small, mysterious daughter. With Christmas drawing near, Natalie was told to seek new lodgings—her place was needed for someone else. With month-old Eva in her arms, Natalie sat with no idea how they’d survive, where to find money or a place to sleep. Her own mother’s heart remained frozen, refusing to acknowledge her granddaughter; she wrote them both out of her life. “What a sad Christmas Eve, darling,” Natalie whispered to Eva. She had always loved the holiday, going carolling since childhood to earn a tidy sum. Eager to recapture that warmth, she thought, “Why not? My baby is quiet, I’ll bundle her up and go sing. If people don’t open their doors, so be it.” The next day, Natalie picked a quiet residential street for her carolling. At first, people eyed such an unusual caroller suspiciously, expecting male singers as tradition. Yet in some houses, warmed by her heartfelt singing and moved by the sight of her baby, they gifted her with money and treats, understanding that misfortune, not merriment, had brought her there. Going door to door was hard. “Just that last big house—maybe I’ll get a proper gift,” she thought, feeling hopeful as her pockets grew heavy with coins, enough to feel some relief. “May I sing you a carol?” she asked when the owner welcomed her inside. But the man’s behaviour unsettled her. He stared at Natalie’s face, then at her child, grew pale, and slumped shakily onto the sofa. “Nadine?” he said, voice trembling. “What? No, I’m Natalie… you must have mistaken me for someone else.” “Natalie? You look just like my wife… and the baby—she’s a girl?” “Yes.” “I had a daughter, too. But they’re gone… a car accident. Just the other night, I dreamed they came home… Then you appeared. Is such a thing possible?” “I… I don’t know what to say…” “Please, come in. Don’t be shy. Tell me your story.” At first, Natalie feared the stranger—his emotions so raw, his reactions so strange. Yet she had nowhere else to go. She stepped into the spacious sitting room, seeing on the wall a photo of his late wife—so like herself… Natalie found herself pouring out her story, every detail. At last, someone was listening, truly interested in her. The man sat in silence, soaking in every word, glancing now and then at baby Eva, sleeping soundly and smiling in her dreams—as if she already sensed she had found a home, soon to become her own…

Author Walton MerrittReading 6 minViews 2

The Son Unready for Fatherhood…

Shameless! Ungrateful little pig! my mother shrieked at me, then known as Sarah, with every ounce of scorn she could muster. My rounded belly, rather than softening her temper, seemed only to inflame it further. Get out of this house and dont you dare come back! I never want to see you again!

She truly did cast me out that day. This wasnt the first time Id found myself out on the street for one foolish mistake or another, but this time was final; she declared I could only ever return once things were all sorted out, which, of course, left no door open at all.

Drenched in tears, clutching a battered suitcase with the sum of my belongings, I made my way to my belovedthe ever-bewildered young man, Henry. To my utter dismay, Henry hadnt even confessed to his parents that I was carrying his child. The first thing his mother asked was whether anything could still be done, but with my belly already plainly visible, it was far too late for that. In shock and desperation, my resolve crumbledjust a month earlier, I had railed against my own mothers harsh suggestions, but now, panic and dread for the future clouded everything.

My son is not ready to become a father, Henrys mother told me curtly, her tone resolute. Hes so youngyoull ruin his whole life if this goes on. Of course, well help however we can. For now, Ive spoken to a friend and arranged a place for you at a refuge for girls in your positioncast-off, pregnant fools.

At the refuge, I was assigned a small, simple room. At last, I managed to breathe againto rest and calm myself while the staff gently prepared me in every way for the birth ahead. A counsellor met with me, talking me through my worries. When the big moment came and I was handed a tiny swaddled bundlethe miracle that was my daughterI found myself seized by fear and panic. But, as I settled, wonder followed, and I gazed for the first time at this curious little creature who was now mine.

Christmas drew near, but instead of the joyful tidings Id once longed for, I was told rather coldly, Youll need to find somewhere else soonothers are waiting for your room.

With little Grace, just one month old, nestled in my arms, I sat in that narrow room, lost for what our next move should bewhere would we go, how would I find money, whom could I possibly ask for shelter? My mothers heart had stayed frozen. She never even allowed herself a glance at Grace, erasing us from her life entirely.

My, little one, what a sorrowful Christmas Eve were having, I murmured softly to Grace. As a child I had loved the seasonrushing out carol-singing around all the neighbourhoods with the other children, earning more pounds than one mightve expected for a night of cheerful song. That old urgeto recreate the wonder and togethernessbegan to stir. Why not? I thought. Grace is quiet and content; Ill wrap her up warmly, carry her close, and give caroling a go. If no one opens their doorwell, so be it.

The day after Christmas Eve, I made my way to a quiet lane surrounded by well-kept houses. As I suspected, the doors didnt swing open for someone caroling alone, especially a young mother. The tradition, after all, was to expect boys at the threshold. Still, now and then, someone let me in, and to those I sang with all my heart. The warmth and generosity of these folk surprised me: I was given not only coins but slices of Christmas cake and mince pies, and when they saw Grace, their faces softened at once. People seemed to understand a woman with a babe at her breast must be in real need, to be out singing on a cold winters night.

Trekking from house to house was no easy feat. Thats it, I thought, glancing at a grander-looking home at the end of the lane, Ill try once moreperhaps the folks there will be kind. I could feel the weight of the coins in my pocketa good sum, enough, at least, to feel some measure of relief.

May I sing a carol for you? I asked when the door opened and the gentleman invited me inside. But his manner puzzled me. Once I stepped over the threshold, he stared intently at my face, then at my child. He paled, stumbled to the sofa, and sat down, trembling.

Margaret? he asked softly.

Pardon? No, Im Sarah You must have me confused, I replied uncertainly.

Sarah but youre the very image of my late wife. And the childis it a girl?

Yes.

I once had a daughter but they both died, years ago, in a terrible accident. A few nights back, I dreamt of them returning. And now could it really be?

I I dont know what to say

Please, come in. Dont stand on ceremony. Would you tell me your story?

At first, I was afraid of the strangers intensitybut I had nowhere else to go, and so I entered his spacious room. There, on the wall, hung a faded photograph of a woman with a childindeed, the likeness to myself was remarkable.

Then, words began to spill out of memy story in all its winding detail, the troubles, the slights, the hopes dashed and desperately pieced together. At last, someone was listening. The man just sat, saying nothing, hanging on each of my words. Now and again hed glance at Grace, sleeping sweetly and smiling in her dreamsas if she knew, somehow, that she was finally home, in a place soon to be hers in truth.

— Not Again With the Licking! Max, Get Him Away! Anna glared in exasperation at Timmy, the hapless pup bouncing around her feet. How did they end up with a dog like him? They’d spent ages researching, weighing up breeds, even seeking expert advice. They understood the responsibility—finally settling on a German Shepherd: loyal friend, vigilant guard, steadfast protector, sort of like a three-in-one shampoo. Only their “protector” needed rescuing from the neighbour’s cats… “He’s just a pup! Give him time—he’ll grow up, you’ll see.” “Yeah, I’m counting the days for this beast to grow into his paws. Do you realise he eats more than we do? How will we feed him? And for goodness’ sake, don’t stomp about like a lumberjack—you’ll wake the baby!” Anna grumbled as she collected the shoes Timmy had scattered. They lived on Churchill Avenue, in a ground-floor flat of one those grand, old red-brick buildings with windows almost at street level. The location was perfect but for one thing: the windows faced a shadowy cul-de-sac at the back, a haunt for shady sorts in the evenings, the scene of more than a few brawls. Anna spent her days at home with newborn Katie while Max was off working at the National Gallery or trawling through antique markets and second-hand bookstalls in his free time. With a curator’s keen eye, he unearthed hidden gems: rare art, collectible china, and Edwardian silver—all amassing quietly in their flat. The growing collection, and her days alone with a baby in a neighbourhood notorious for break-ins, made Anna anxious. “Anna, when do you think is best to walk Timmy? Now or after lunch?” “I don’t know, and honestly, that’s your dog business, not mine!” The word “walkies” sent Timmy zooming down the hall—so fast he nearly skidded into the wall—before snatching his lead and bouncing up, nose to ceiling. What a horse, not a dog! He loved everyone, greeted guests with a wag and brought anyone who’d let him his ball—while the only thing he protected was his reputation as the friendliest neighbour on the block. He wouldn’t even chase the local cats. Instead, he tried to make friends with them—resulting in a paw swipe across his nose more than once. The block’s cats were tough—maybe they should’ve got one of those for protection! With Max heading off to Henley-on-Thames for the Levitan Festival tomorrow, Anna faced another day alone: stuck guarding china and walking this big-eared dunce. Just what every mum needs… At dawn, Max tried to leave quietly, but Anna still caught the sound of the kettle, the jingle of the lead, his hushing Timmy from barking or thumping about. She drifted back to sleep until Katie’s fussing woke her, greeted by the same ordinary, peaceful day. Friends often sighed: “Anna, you married so young—torn between husband and daughter, stuck in the kitchen. Don’t you get bored?” But Anna found charm in the everyday, even if life wasn’t perfect. She coped with cramped space, tight budgets, and Max’s collectors’ passion burning through every spare penny—now leaving her with this big-eared companion. But Anna knew: you have to love people, foibles and all. No one promised perfection. She sat in the nursery feeding Katie, who kept dozing off mid-feed. When the doorbell rang, Anna didn’t answer. She wasn’t expecting anyone; no friend would trek across town without a call first. She treasured these quiet mornings, with only the old grandfather clock ticking and the muted city hum slipping in through the window: buses rumbling, street-sweepers shuffling, children’s voices in the distance… But where was Timmy? Odd; he’d been out of sight for a while now. His ears were perfect, really—perky and alert. Only his character was dopey. Now here they were: living with him, feeding him, walking him—and for what use? They’d have been better off with a spaniel. Anna watched her content daughter drift to sleep. Oh, what a precious girl! “My little treasure,” Anna whispered, tucking her in. “Grow up strong—what more could we wish for?” Just then, a strange noise came from the sitting room—a sharp crack or a squeak. Anna froze and listened. The sound came again. She crept out silently, heart pounding. Timmy’s back was towards her, half-hidden behind the curtain dividing the hallway from the lounge. His whole body was tense, crouched low, ears up, watching intently into the room. Anna followed his gaze and felt a chill: halfway through the window, wedged in the open pane, was the upper half of a man. A shaven, menacing head, arms and shoulders already inside as he strained to squeeze the rest of his gaunt frame through. Anna couldn’t believe it—this couldn’t be happening! What now? Scream? He was almost inside, just one more push and— The thief barely had time to react—a black shadow shot to the window. Anna realised it was Timmy. With a leap, he clamped his jaws at the man’s neck! The burglar let out a hoarse, terrified yell, his eyes bulging as he froze in panic. Anna ran for help, calling the neighbours. Soon the hallway was packed, police on their way, and Anna felt a surge of relief—she hadn’t been alone after all. Her main worry: what if Timmy hurt the man? But there he was, gripping the intruder’s collar firmly but carefully. Not a drop of blood—only tightening his hold if the man struggled, easing off when he stilled. Anna watched, amazed: their ball-chasing clown acted like a trained professional. Timmy hadn’t barked, hadn’t alerted the thief to his presence. Instead, he’d staged an ambush, letting the man get stuck before pouncing and holding him in a perfect guard’s grip—enough to subdue, not enough to harm. As if he understood the motto: our job’s to detain—justice takes care of the rest. Even the veteran constables on the scene laughed; they’d never seen a burglar so happy to be taken in. Shaken and overjoyed to be freed from Timmy’s teeth, the crook surrendered gratefully. As for Timmy, he was so proud of his “catch” that he wouldn’t let go until the police dog handler arrived. At the officer’s command, Timmy released—then sat beside the window, gazing up, awaiting further orders as if asking, “What’s next, boss?” “You’ve struck gold with this dog,” the officer said, ruffling Timmy’s ears. “I wish we had him back at the station.” Max returned late that night, froze stunned in the doorway. There was Timmy sprawled on the forbidden sofa, legs in the air, Anna scratching his belly, cooing and fussing like he was the world’s greatest hero: “My joy, my darling, my precious boy, grow big and strong for Mummy and Daddy. I’ve been so unfair—please forgive me…” I heard this tale from the art historian himself, years ago, at a Levitan Festival. No doubt Timmy would’ve told it even better—how he stalked, how he apprehended, how he turned the thief over to the authorities. The memory lives on, and at last, I felt compelled to pass it on to you.