“If you want the child, take him. I don’t care. I can’t stand to look at him. But give me money in return,” said Victoria.
Katherine had a long face with round, slightly bulging brown eyes, large teeth, and a heavy jaw. Yet her hair was thick, dark, and curled into lavish waves. If pinned up at the back, it made a grand hairstyle—but then her face’s flaws showed more starkly. So she always wore it loose.
Her figure wasn’t much better, as if clumsily shaped by an unskilled hand. But clothes could hide the body—not the face.
Sometimes, men on the street would call after her: “Hey, love, fancy a chat?” But when she turned, they’d stammer excuses—”Wrong girl, sorry!”—and hurry off.
“Why give such hair to a plain Jane?” her jealous classmates sighed. Katherine would’ve traded it in an instant for limp, dull strands if it meant a prettier face, even by a fraction.
She had no friends. But there was one boy—he sat nearby in class, sometimes borrowing her homework or asking for answers during tests. She was clever, after all.
One day, he invited her to the cinema. Katherine was over the moon. After the film, they walked and talked—though he kept glancing back.
“Who are you looking for? Afraid someone will see you with me?” she asked bluntly. He reddened, flustered.
At her doorstep, he kissed her clumsily—and then came the jeers of his mates around the corner. She understood. A bet: could he kiss the ugly girl?
“What did they promise you?” she shouted before fleeing inside. She never looked his way again, nor let him copy her work.
“Don’t fret, there’ll be men enough in your time. I married, and so will you,” her equally plain mother reassured her.
Katherine finished school with top marks, studied economics at university, and graduated with honours. Yet she envied prettier classmates who dated, married, even had children while studying.
After university, her father—a well-known barrister with connections—landed her a position at a prestigious firm.
Her colleagues rushed home to husbands and sickly children; Katherine stayed late, finishing their work. She had nowhere to hurry to. They loved her for it—reliable, precise, never missing a deadline.
Grateful, they tried setting her up with their husbands’ friends—mostly divorced men who’d surrendered their homes to ex-wives. Tired of rented flats and fleeting company, they’d gladly anchor to stability. Even with Katherine. But she wanted love, not duty. At night, she wept, cursing fate for making her so plain.
Then her father died. Two years later, her mother followed. Both had married late; she was their only child. Alone in the world, time marched on, her chances of motherhood slipping away.
A colleague suggested a holiday down south.
“Our managing director had… troubles,” she whispered. “Strong, handsome chap, but couldn’t father a child. His wife longed for one but wouldn’t divorce—big house, fancy cars, status. The doctors hinted they ought to take a seaside holiday and… relax.”
They went to Spain. There, she strayed with a handsome waiter—after checking his blood type, of course. Just in case. Understand?
“How’d you know? About the director?” asked Katherine.
“Doesn’t matter. Point is, everyone’s happy. He’s got an heir now. Holidays make all men single, wedding ring or not. You’ll tan, relax, maybe find someone. Just pick a handsome one—improve the stock.”
“Like breeding pedigree dogs?” scoffed Katherine.
“Exactly. Or try here, but why risk trouble? There, everyone’s a stranger, divorced, free.”
Dubious but desperate, she took leave and went. One evening, strolling the promenade, she met a striking man—tall, broad, distinguished. She feigned a twisted ankle. He, ever the gentleman, steadied her, took her to a café, and they dined.
She didn’t mince words. He didn’t laugh or flee—just studied her, understanding.
She returned home sun-kissed, rested, and happy—not yet knowing she was pregnant. Two weeks later, she knew. Nine months on, she bore a beautiful girl.
The midwife, no stranger to such cases, judged none. No visitors came for the plain woman, no notes of joy, no grateful shouts beneath her window.
At discharge, the doctor gifted formula, nappies, and her personal number. “Call if needed.” They became friends. Katherine named the baby Victoria.
She spoiled the girl wildly, pouring all her pent-up love into her. Victoria grew up stunning, spoiled, and wilful—mirroring her father in all but her mother’s beautiful hair.
Boys flocked to her. She barely scraped through school, dreaming only of marriage. At eighteen, she ran off with a rocker to London, leaving a note: “Don’t look for me.”
What could Katherine do? Report her? She was an adult, gone willingly. Heartbroken, Katherine buried herself in work.
Over a year later, the midwife—now a dear friend—rang. They’d drifted apart; the call unsettled her.
No pleasantries. “A young mother just abandoned her baby. The name, address… it’s your daughter.”
“God,” Katherine gasped.
“Don’t weep—come quick, before she bolts. I’ve held the papers. Convince her to take the boy properly. If not, you’ll have a harder fight. You won’t refuse him, will you? I thought not. Maybe she’ll come round. Happens sometimes. Reckon the father left her. The boy’s sweet—an angel. Minor health hiccups, but fixable.”
Katherine raced to the hospital. Victoria looked worse than a stray cat. She barely acknowledged her mother but listened to the plea to reclaim her son.
“If you want him, take him. I can’t stand him. But give me money. I know you’ve got it,” Victoria said.
Katherine handed over nearly all her savings. She met them at discharge with flowers, hoping for a change. But Victoria showed no interest—no nursing, no naming, vanished in three days.
Katherine named the boy Edward, after the stranger who’d given her Victoria. She took leave, hired a nanny, and worked from home—her boss, valuing her, allowed it. Money was tight, but children grow fast, needing much.
She loved Edward madly but didn’t spoil him, fearing past mistakes. He was calm, bright, called her “Mum.” When he fell ill—common once nursery began—her friend arranged the best paediatricians.
Older, he asked why his mother never called or wrote. So Katherine forged letters—full of empty promises and love. At first, he believed. Then grew weary of waiting. No envelopes? Where’d they come from?
His mother never came. The letters stopped. Life was good—except for Katherine’s dread that Victoria might return, claim him, steal him away. She couldn’t imagine life without her sunshine.
Then came a letter from America. Heart pounding, she opened it. Victoria had married an older man—a house, two stepdaughters, but he wanted a son. Reading on, Katherine clutched her chest. Her worst fear: he knew of Edward and wanted him.
She sipped water, steadied herself. Victoria wrote of her barrenness. Her husband, learning of Edward, urged her to bring him over—the best schools, a better life. Not once did she ask how he’d been.
Katherine forgot to breathe. Edward found her on the sofa, letter beside her.
“Mum wrote again?” he asked wryly.
“It’s real. From America. She’s coming to take you,” Katherine wept.
“Shall I call an ambulance? Your pills?” he fretted. “Gran, I’m not going. How could I leave you? She never wanted me—I don’t want her,” he said, firm as a man.
But Katherine’s dread lingered. Two weeks later, another letter: Victoria was leaving her husband. But to start anew, she needed money. Divorce would take time; she’d get a payout, but till then—cash.
Katherine knew what she wanted. Sell their spacious London flat, buy a smaller one, send the rest. Victoria had rights, too. Another bargain: money for her son.
Without hesitation, Katherine sold up. Two months later, they moved to a new-build on the outskirts—cramped after the old flat, but with a view of woods and distant motorway lights.
Edward started a new school. Katherine demanded Victoria renounce all claims before she sent the money—her friend’s advice, to block future blackmail.
Yet fear gnawed at her. Only when Edward came of age would she rest easy. Long after, she flinched at the post, jumped at phone calls.
But Victoria never wrote again. Katherine hoped she was happy, alive. Mothers feel their children, they say—but she felt nothing beyond her worry for Edward.
Age softened Katherine’s face, smoothed its harshness. Looking back, she regretted nothingYears passed, and on the day Edward graduated from university with honours, Katherine finally allowed herself to believe that the life they had built together was truly theirs to keep.
