Olivia’s labour began unexpectedly—prematurely, in her eighth month. The doctors acted swiftly, and within hours, she was holding her fragile, tiny daughter in her arms. The baby was whisked into an incubator, too weak to breathe on her own. Tears welled in Olivia’s eyes, and her heart clenched with a fear she couldn’t shake. She whispered through sobs, “My little girl will pull through… We’ll go home together, I know it…”
Days in the hospital dragged by. Olivia barely slept, visiting the nursery every hour, praying, willing herself to believe. One evening, as she left her room, she overheard two nurses talking. Their voices held no sympathy—just exhaustion and resignation.
“The one in Room Seven,” said one. “Refuses to breastfeed. Says she’s worried about ruining her figure.”
“Pretty, sure. But what’s going on in her head?” sighed the other.
Olivia’s ears perked up. They were talking about the woman who’d given birth to a boy days earlier—a woman who’d not only rejected nursing but had signed official papers renouncing him. “Motherhood wasn’t in my plans,” she’d said. “I want to live for myself.”
The man who visited the hospital was the one who’d once shattered Olivia’s heart. He’d come for his son, standing by the incubator, stroking tiny fingers through sterile gloves. When he saw Olivia cradling the boy, feeding him, smiling at him, something flickered in his eyes—more than gratitude. Hope.
Meanwhile, the boy’s mother was busy. Fresh manicures, blowouts, spa appointments, and fittings for her “going-home outfit.” There was no room in her mind for a hungry baby’s cries or sleepless nights. “I’m too young to be tied down,” she told her friends over the phone. “I’ve got my whole life ahead of me.”
Olivia visited the boy every day. She never forgot her own daughter, praying every second for her strength. But fate had other plans. Days later, the doctor delivered the crushing news: her little girl was gone. Olivia’s world collapsed. She sat on the bed, numb, arms wrapped around herself like she could hold the fragments of her heart together.
Then came a knock. It was *him*. Flowers and balloons in hand, he knelt beside her and reached out. “Let’s go home… together.”
Olivia was bewildered. Gently, he placed the baby in her arms—the boy she’d fed, the one she’d grown to love like her own. He’d decided: he’d adopt his son. But not alone. With Olivia. Because she was the only one who’d truly become the boy’s mother.
That day, they left the hospital together. Olivia wasn’t alone anymore. Beside her stood a man, and in her arms, a child. Her heart ached with loss—but also glowed with hope.
As for *her*… Natalie, the man’s ex-wife, stood by the window in her designer dress. Watching *Olivia* greeted with flowers, *Olivia* holding the child, she paled. Then she erupted, storming down the corridor. “What the hell?! Where’s my husband? Where’s my son?!”
The nurse at reception, who’d spent days witnessing Natalie’s indifference, sighed. “Relax, Natalie. Everything’s sorted. Now you can focus on yourself—and your appearance. Your son has a proper mother now.”
Olivia and the boy vanished from the hospital. They moved towns, started fresh. A new life, built on love.
And Natalie? She stayed right where she was. Perfect dress. Perfect hair. And absolutely no one beside her.
