“It’s not your child!”
Emily and James stepped out of the maternity ward, glowing with joy. James cradled a tiny pink bundle—his newborn son, long-awaited and beloved, softly snuffling beneath a knitted blanket. Relatives, friends, and the midwife cheered, showering them with congratulations and bouquets. Everything was just as Emily had dreamed.
“Thank you, my love,” James whispered, “for our son.”
But Emily’s face suddenly paled.
“Look—your mother’s coming…”
Margaret—James’s mother—stormed toward them. Stern, rigid, unyielding. Had she taken time off work? Unlikely without a purpose.
“James! Don’t do this!” she snapped instead of greeting.
“What?” He froze.
“Don’t take that child. He’s not your son!”
A dead silence fell. Emily flinched as if struck.
“Mum, have you lost your mind?” James stared at her, uncomprehending.
It had begun three months ago, when James first confessed: he was in love. With an older woman. A mother. Pregnant by another man.
Margaret had been horrified. She’d tried to stay out of it, to let it pass. Hoped it was a fleeting infatuation. But then James announced his plans—to marry her. To adopt her eldest child. To raise this unborn baby as his own.
“Have you gone mad?” Margaret had blurted.
“Mum, this is my choice. I love her. And I love those children. I’ll be their father.”
“But you’re young! You could start fresh with a woman without baggage—have your own children!”
“They *will* be mine,” James said firmly.
She’d tried reasoning with Emily. Invited her for tea. No shouting, just quiet logic.
“You’re a mother. So am I. I don’t dislike you—but is this fair? You bear another man’s child, and my son raises it?”
Emily had only smirked.
“Want me to vanish? Waste of breath. I love James. He loves me. We’re staying. Whether you like it or not.”
From that day, Emily stopped acknowledging her. James avoided conversations. Their phones fell silent.
Margaret suffered. Wept at night. Turned to her ex-husband—he shrugged. Even her sister, hearing her out, sighed, “If he’s happy, that’s what matters.”
But Margaret knew: he didn’t see the trap. He was blind. And only she, his mother, could see how he was being played.
Through a cousin, she learned the discharge date. And she resolved—she’d be there. One last attempt to stop him. To turn him back.
“Son, I beg you…” Her voice trembled before the gathered guests. “That child isn’t yours. Don’t make this mistake. It’s not too late.”
Emily clutched the baby tighter, as if shielding him.
“Mum, leave,” James said quietly, coldly. “He *is* my son. And I’m taking him home. Nothing you say will change that.”
“Emily,” Margaret turned to her, “you’re grown. You have two children. Can’t you see how this pains me? Watching my son turned into a glorified wallet?”
“Enough,” Emily cut in. “I had this child with a man who abandoned me. James chose to stay—that’s *his* decision. You’ve no right to interfere.”
“I have the right to be his mother!” Margaret shouted. “And you—you’re just exploiting his kindness!”
“And you’re just a bitter woman nobody listens to. No wonder your husband left.”
The words struck like a slap.
The guests stood silent. Some looked away. Others fidgeted. James took the baby and led Emily to the car. Doors slammed. The engine rumbled to life.
Margaret remained—alone. Surrounded by strangers’ joy, strangers’ children, strangers’ truth.
Her son was no longer hers. And she understood—too late.
