She Gave Birth Silently and Prepared to Give Up Her Baby: A Midwife’s Tale of a Student Mother, an Absent Businessman Father, and the Fight for a Happy Ending in an English Hospital

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 5 minViews 1

She gave birth quietly and was about to give her baby away

I’ve been a midwife for more years than I’d care to admit, and let me tell you, I’ve seen a spectrum of situationssome heartwarming, some heart-wrenching. The nursing staff rarely pokes its nose into the business of expectant mothers and their families, but recently I had to step in to help a certain university student who, after giving birth to a delightful baby girl, was all set to hand her over to adoption without so much as a cup of tea.

Her name was Poppya distinctly English choice, fitting for a girl who breezed into St. George’s Hospital without having darkened a GPs door for the entire nine months. She avoided answering why shed never seen a doctor, and, frankly, with contractions gaining pace, I hadnt the luxury to interrogate her much anyway.

Poppy delivered her baby as if shed been rehearsing for the role all terma sterling performance compared to those who dutifully attend antenatal classes and arrive clutching a birth plan like their lives depend on it. The soon-to-be mum barely uttered a sound, following instructions to the letter, and popped out her daughter with barely a hiccup. When I handed Poppy her wriggling, wailing bundleannouncing, with gusto, her entrance into the worldPoppy wept quietly. Tears rolled down her cheeks and I reassured her, Shes in fine fettle. We ought to celebrate such a lovely girl.

Alas, not long after settling onto the postnatal ward, Poppy requested that we notify the adoption services. She wanted nothing more than to pass her daughter into someone elses care.

We did our best to persuade her otherwisenudged her to reconsider, suggested she might be acting in hastebut Poppy refused to feed her daughter and simply asked to be left alone.

The girl, in contrast to the other newborns, was not having the formula one bit. She hungrily nuzzled the air at any hint of milk, trying to find a breast that, for the moment, was determinedly absent.

As the hours passed, the little girl started losing weight. Back on shift, ignoring every discouragement from colleagues, I picked her up again and carried her to Poppy. I explained gently, but firmly, that her choices were jeopardising her babys health; I nearly insisted she give feeding a try. With slight reluctance, Poppy allowed her daughter to latch on, and the baby sucked away with the determination of someone who truly knows what they want. I excused myself for a pressing matter (I didnt, of course), leaving them alone.

When I returned half an hour later, the pair were fast asleep, with Poppy curled protectively around her daughter. Eventually, Poppy emerged with the baby, sat herself by my desk, and finally began to talk.

It transpired her daughters father was a well-known businessman in town, married (oh, the classic twist), who had not been terribly keen on the pregnancy. Hed suggested a termination at first, but Poppy stood her ground. On learning of her decision, the businessman tried to win back his wifes good graces by confessing everything. She, in turn, threw herself into making Poppys life thoroughly unpleasant, demanding the child be given up for adoption. Neither wads of cash nor veiled threats could persuade Poppy otherwise; eventually, the man vanished from London for an indefinite spell, leaving his wife to press for adoption even harder.

Finishing her story, Poppy looked me squarely in the eye and confessed, I want to keep herI really do. But how on earth am I meant to manage at my student digs, skint as I am?

Hearing this, I cottoned on quick and did my best to lift her spirits. Our consultant was a bit of a local celebrity with plenty of contacts, and he wasted no time tracking down the father. To our collective astonishment, the businessman turned up within hours and didnt dodge responsibilityhe talked through every detail about Poppy and the babys future and, to his credit, behaved with unexpected decency.

On discharge, Poppy rented a flatthe businessman paid a years rent in advance in British pounds, naturallyand handed over a generous sum to tide her over. He promised to look after their daughter going forward. Perhaps his conscience managed to poke him awake; he seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation at last. Ive no clue how things will play out for Poppy and her daughter, but my hope, naturally, is that together theyll build a family and raise one smashing little English lady.

I Looked After My Grandkids for Free—Then My Daughter Handed Me a List of Parenting Criticisms and Demands “Really, Mum, not shop-bought gingerbread again! We agreed—only gluten-free biscuits from that bakery on Churchill Road,” Marina’s voice rang with outrage, as if I’d committed the crime of the century—not just given a snack to two little boys. “They’re full of sugar and trans fats! Do you want the boys breaking out in eczema again? Or bouncing off the walls before bed?” Mrs. Nina Goodwin sighed, gently brushing crumbs into her palm. She wanted to say that the gluten-free biscuits (priced like they were made of gold) had been declared “cardboard” and flat-out refused, while the classic gingerbread was demolished with delight. But she kept quiet. Increasingly, silence was her tactic—better not to fan the flames. Marina, her only daughter, stood in the kitchen in a sharp business suit, anxiously checking her watch. She was late for a big meeting, but apparently her lecture about nutrition outweighed London traffic. “Mum, they were starving after their walk,” Nina tried, rinsing cups beneath the tap. “They only picked at the soup and left half their dinner. They need the energy.” “Energy comes from complex carbs, not sugar!” her daughter snapped, grabbing her bag. “Right, I’m off. Oleg will be home by eight. Make sure they finish their speech therapy. And no screens—I’ll be checking the browser history!” The door slammed, leaving a trail of perfume and a swirl of tension. Nina Goodwin sank onto a chair, her back aching. Sixty-two years old. Two years ago, coaxed by her daughter and son-in-law, she’d left her stable job as head accountant for a small company to devote herself to her grandsons, Theo and Paul. “Why work, Mum?” Oleg, her son-in-law, had pleaded. “We earn enough for the mortgage, our careers matter. We need backup. Nursery workers are strangers—and nannies cost the earth. With you here, we’re at ease, and you avoid the commuter crush.” At the time, it sounded logical—even tempting. Nina adored her grandkids, and numbers were becoming tiresome. She’d pictured peaceful park walks and storytime cuddles. The reality was different. Now, her days started at 7am, traversing half of London from her modest flat to the children’s modern terrace, arriving before the boys woke. Marina and Oleg left early, returned late; all housework, medical appointments, clubs, and laundry landed on Nina’s shoulders. Five-year-old Theo was bouncing off the walls; three-year-old Paul was stubborn and prone to tantrums. That evening unfolded as usual. Nina built castles with the boys and explained s versus sh for speech therapy. Then the usual dinner battle—broccoli fell to the mighty sausage, which she’d boiled on the sly, unable to resist hungry eyes. Baths, bedtime stories, lights out. When Oleg clicked the lock, Nina could hardly stand. “Marina home yet?” he asked, sandwich in hand. “Delayed—a meeting,” Nina replied, collecting her bag. “I’d better head or I’ll miss the last bus—can’t afford, these taxi fares.” “Yes, sure,” Oleg called, phone in hand. “Thanks, Mrs Goodwin. Make sure the door locks.” On the bus home, gazing at the city lights, Nina reflected that Oleg’s thank you felt as flat as a washing machine’s end beep. Nobody asked about her health—even as her blood pressure soared. Then, a weekend bombshell: Marina called. “Mum, can you come Sunday for a family chat? We need to talk seriously.” With trepidation, Nina arrived, cabbage pie in hand (Oleg’s favourite). The atmosphere was brisk rather than homey. The boys were tucked away with cartoons (normally forbidden), and the grownups sat around the dining table. Oleg opened a laptop. Marina laid out a notepad. The pie perched, awkward and out of place. “Mum, Oleg and I analysed the past six months,” Marina began, eyes averted. “We need to regularise the boys’ upbringing. Some things just aren’t good enough.” “Not good enough?” Nina felt her hands go cold. “What do you mean?” “We’ve made a list,” Oleg said, revealing an Excel spreadsheet. “Nothing personal, Mrs Goodwin, just constructive criticism to optimise processes.” “Oh, look,” said Marina, ticking down her list, “Point one: Nutrition. You routinely break the boys’ diet—gingerbread, sausages, cakes. We want strict adherence to the meal plan on the fridge. No exceptions.” “They won’t eat turkey burgers, Marina! They’re children; they want something nice.” “Tastes are set young,” Oleg interrupted, “Point two: Sleep. Paul went to bed at 9:30 last week, not 9:00. This disrupts melatonin. That can’t happen.” Nina remembered that night— cradling a poorly Paul, soothing him. “Point three: Education,” Marina fired on. “Theo still confuses his colours in English! Aren’t you using the flashcards? You let them play with cars instead of working on their cognitive abilities.” “He’s five! He needs a childhood!” Nina protested. “We read together and count pinecones in the park—” “Pinecones are outdated,” Marina brushed her off. “And most importantly, discipline. You spoil them. This isn’t a professional approach.” The word “unprofessional” stung most of all. “And finally,” Oleg concluded. “We’re implementing a schedule and a list of KPIs—key performance indicators. We’ll review progress weekly. If there’s no improvement in English, we’ll have to hire a tutor—which our budget can’t afford. We expected you’d manage.” Nina stared at her cooling pie, her dearest family transformed into office managers conducting a performance review. Two years flashed through her mind—dragging sledges through snow, sitting vigil through fevers, scrubbing their floors, skipping new coats to buy quality LEGO for the boys. She thought all of this was for love, for family. But now she realized they saw her as unpaid outsourced labour, failing to meet targets. Silence thickened. Children’s TV murmured from down the hall. “So, a list of complaints?” Nina asked, voice unexpectedly steely. “Oh Mum, it’s not a list of complaints, just points for growth,” Marina grimaced. “We just want a system.” “I see,” Nina stood. “Oleg, email me the file. I want a detailed look.” “Yes, certainly—” Oleg brightened, thinking she’d play along. “Now listen to me,” Nina drew herself up. Decades as head accountant taught her to stay composed through audits. “You’re asking for a teacher, nutritionist, chef and cleaner, all in one. With skills in English, Montessori methods and military discipline. That’s fine—just one thing missing.” “What’s that?” Marina tensed. “A work contract and payment,” Nina said calmly. “Since you love a spreadsheet! In London these days, a nanny-governess earns £15–£20 an hour. I’m here 12 hours a day, 5 days a week. That’s at least £900 a week, nearly £3,600 a month—minimum, not counting overtime or meals I prep.” Oleg tried a nervous laugh, “Mrs Goodwin, come on—you’re family! You’re Grandma.” “Grandma,” said Nina, “means Sunday baking, treats, and stories when I feel like it. Someone who’s sent a list of targets and gets scolded for falling short is an employee—and employees are paid. Slavery ended in 1833.” Marina shot upright: “Mum! How can you put a price on this? We thought you helped because you love the boys!” “I love them more than anything,” Nina’s eyes glistened, but she was firm. “That’s why I ran myself ragged these two years. But today, you made it clear—I’m not helping, I’m offering substandard services. And in that case—with regret—I resign.” “What?” both gasped. “You heard me. From tomorrow, find a professional who ticks your boxes—one who cooks broccoli, teaches Mandarin in their sleep, and runs bedtime by stopwatch. I’m returning to being Grandma. I’ll visit on Sundays. With gingerbread.” She grabbed her bag. “Eat the pie, it’s nice. Goodbye.” Nina stepped out to stunned silence, hearing only Marina’s muffled cry: “What do we do now?!” She didn’t so much ride the bus home as float. It was scary, but also an enormous relief, like dropping a bag of bricks. That night, for the first time in two years, she made herself herbal tea, put on a classic film, and switched her phone off. The next week was a flood of calls. First guilt, then pleas. Nina was serene: “My doctor’s ordered rest, Marina. No, I’m busy tomorrow. Hair appointment. Theatre on Thursday. You’ll cope—systematic people that you are.” She actually did go to the theatre with a friend, bought herself a new dress, started sleeping soundly again. Life glowed with colours she’d forgotten. News from the “front” came in snippets. At first the children took time off. Soon after, the agency sent them a nanny. A month later, as promised, Nina visited. The house was chaos; shoes everywhere, dirty dishes piled up. The boys leapt on her, nearly knocking her over. “Gran! It’s Gran!” From the kitchen emerged a stern-faced woman. “Theo, Paul! No hugging! Go straight to the lounge for activities!” “Hello, I’m Grandma,” Nina said. “Gail, the nanny,” the woman muttered. “Don’t spoil them, we’re on schedule.” The boys followed, as if to the gallows. Marina emerged—exhausted, shadow-eyed. “Tea, Mum?” she muttered. “Gail, would you make some?” “Not part of my job,” the nanny snapped. “I was hired for the children, not the house. Make your own. And you still owe me overtime—fifteen minutes last Wednesday.” Marina gritted her teeth and reached for the kettle. It was hopeless. Nina saw the strain on her daughter, Oleg’s twitching eyelid as he worked even on weekends. The nanny never let the boys smile, barking at the smallest lapse. “Nice lady?” Nina whispered when the nanny left the room. “Agency sent her,” Marina sighed. “’VIP staff’, three languages, references from CEOs.” “Expensive?” “Eighty grand a year plus food,” Oleg muttered, “She eats for England—demands farm produce.” “At least she’s professional,” Nina couldn’t resist. Marina burst into tears. Quiet, hopeless tears. “Mum, this is hell. She drills the boys like soldiers. Paul’s wetting the bed again. Theo begs to see you. No screens allowed, not even learning games. She’s always on her phone while they silently do puzzles. We’re terrified to fire her—she’s our third in a month. We’ve maxed out the credit card.” Nina saw her daughter’s pain and felt her heart soften—but she knew: if she gave in, it would all repeat. Next week, another list, more dismissal of her efforts. “Don’t cry,” she handed over a tissue. “Experience is costly, but valuable.” “Mum, come back? Please?” Oleg pleaded. “We were idiots. No more Excel at Grandma. We took you for granted. Can you forgive us? Please.” Marina nodded, sniffling: “No more lists, no more criticism. Give them gingerbread, anything—just come back! We’ll pay you more than the nanny!” Nina sipped her tea. From the playroom, the nanny’s parade-ground voice could be heard. “No payment,” she said. “I’m not an employee. Family and money don’t mix. But I’m nobody’s house-slave, either.” She handed over a paper with her terms—already prepared. “My conditions: I mind the boys three days a week only—Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, nine to six. Evenings and weekends are mine. Mondays and Fridays—sort yourselves out or get a temp.” “Deal!” Oleg agreed at once. “Second, no instructions about how I handle my own grandchildren. I raised you, Marina—and you turned out all right. If I think a biscuit will make them happy, they have a biscuit. If they need Winnie-the-Pooh on TV, that’s what we’ll watch. Otherwise, call the agency.” “We like it, Mum, it’s perfect!” Marina wept. “And finally, respect. One complaint about ‘professionalism’, one sour look over unwashed pans, and I’m gone again. I help with the kids, not the whole house. That’s your job.” “Of course, Mum. We’ll hire a cleaner. Anything.” “We’ve agreed then,” Nina smiled. “Now go and sack that woman. My heart breaks listening to her rant at Paul.” When Gail, spluttering and demanding her severance (which Oleg meekly paid), finally left, the flat filled with peace. “Gran! Is the scary lady gone?” Paul ran and flung himself at Nina. “She’s gone, love, for good.” “Can we bake cakes again?” asked Theo, full of hope. “Yes, on Tuesdays. And now Grandma will read a story and then go home. Grandma has her day off, too.” That evening, Oleg called her a “Comfort Plus” taxi. Marina packed delicacies meant for the nanny. They farewelled her like she was off on an adventure. In the plush car, Nina gazed at the city night. It wouldn’t always be easy—old habits and chores would try to creep back. But she knew her worth now—and, just as crucially, so did her children. Sometimes, to be valued, you just have to step back and let people see the difference. Love is vital, but healthy boundaries make it stronger. Leave the spreadsheets to the office—Gran has her own time-honoured ways, built on love, not on tick-boxes. Thank you for reading this story. Please like and subscribe—your support means the world.

Don’t Like That I Want My Own Family? I Escaped, Started a New Life, and You Came Back to the Same Old Ways – When a City Girl with a Successful Career Follows Her Heart to a Village, Only for Her Fiancé’s Family to Show Up and Stir Up Trouble Again “Zina, don’t worry so much! I know life in the country will be tough for a city girl, but I’ll help!” promised Dima. “I can handle everything, I just want you by my side!” Zina couldn’t help but think, “Why did I have to fall so hard for a country boy? Now I’m 28, with a great job in the city, and he’s 30 with a big family and his own house in the countryside not far from town.” They met by chance at an amusement park—she was dragged along by friends, he’d wandered in while his mum shopped. After swapping numbers, Dima did everything to win her over—kind, attentive, and much more genuine than any city lad. Then he proposed, and Zina said yes. Her mum cautioned: “Well, darling, give it a go. Dima’s a good, hard-working country lad. If it doesn’t work, you can always come home.” So Zina took a week’s holiday, packed her car, and left her hard-earned two-bed flat to join Dima. Life in the country started out fun—sunny evenings watering the veg patch and making dinner together. But then came the family. Dima’s parents and brother (with his wife) arrived and everything changed—the country clan made Zina feel like an unwelcome guest, poking fun at her city ways and questioning the relationship at every opportunity. Amid awkward dinners, rude remarks (“Who even names their daughter Zina? Our cow’s called Zina!”), and being called lazy for not rising with the dawn, Zina wondered if love really was enough. Dima, stuck between his fiancée and his overbearing family, finally stood up for the life they were building together. “You don’t like that I want my own family? I ran away, started making a life of my own, but you turned up and dragged me back to where we started!” he declared to his meddling relatives. In the end, the young couple learned that choosing happiness sometimes means drawing firm boundaries—even if it means facing down the whole family. When Dima finally put Zina first, she knew he truly meant it. And from then on, no unexpected visitor could rattle their home. A heartwarming countryside love story about new beginnings, overbearing in-laws, and having the courage to put your own happiness first!

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