He’s Not Your Son!
Emma and James stepped out of the maternity ward, beaming with joy. James cradled a tiny pink bundle—his newborn son, long-awaited and dearly loved, wrapped snugly in a blanket, softly snoring. Family, friends, and the midwife cheered, showered them with flowers and congratulations. Everything was just as Emma had dreamed.
“Thank you, darling,” James whispered, “for our son.”
But Emma suddenly paled.
“Look… your mum’s here.”
Barreling toward them was Margaret—James’s mother. Stern, rigid, and terrifyingly efficient. Had she taken time off work? Unlikely without a reason.
“James! Don’t do this!” she snapped instead of a greeting.
“What?” he blinked.
“Don’t take that child. He’s not your son!”
Dead silence. Emma flinched as if struck.
“Mum, have you lost the plot?” James stared at her like she’d grown a second head.
It had all started three months ago when James first confessed: he was in love. With an older woman. A single mum. And—pregnant by another man.
Margaret had been horrified. She’d tried not to interfere, to bite her tongue. Hoped he’d “get it out of his system.” But then James announced his plans: marriage, adoption of her eldest, and raising the baby on the way as his own.
“Have you gone mad?” she’d blurted.
“Mum, it’s my choice. I love her. And those children. I’ll be their father.”
“But you’re young! You could start fresh with a woman who doesn’t come with baggage! Have your own kids!”
“They *will* be mine,” James said firmly.
She’d tried reasoning with Emma. Invited her for coffee. No shouting, just polite desperation.
“You’re a mother, I’m a mother. I don’t dislike you. But be fair—is it right? You’ll have another man’s child, and my son will raise it?”
Emma had only smirked.
“You want me to vanish? Waste of breath. James loves me. I love him. We’re staying together. Like it or not.”
After that, Emma stopped saying hello. James dodged conversations. Their phones went silent.
Margaret agonised. Cried herself to sleep. Venting to her ex-husband got her nowhere. Even her sister, usually her ally, shrugged: “If he’s happy, that’s what matters.”
But Margaret knew better. He was blind. Only she, his mother, saw how he was being played.
Through her nephew, she learned the discharge date. She’d be there. One last try to stop him.
“Son, please…” Her voice trembled in front of everyone. “That boy isn’t yours. Don’t make this mistake.”
Emma clutched the baby tighter, as if shielding him.
“Mum, leave,” James said quietly, steel in his tone. “He *is* my son. And I’m taking him home. Nothing you say will change that.”
“Emma,” Margaret turned on her, “you’re grown. You’ve two children now. Can’t you see how this breaks me? Watching my son turned into a walking wallet?”
“Enough,” Emma cut in. “The father left me. James *chose* to stay. That’s his right, not yours.”
“I have the right to be his mother!” Margaret shouted. “And you—you’re just using his kindness!”
“And you’re just a bitter woman nobody listens to. Bet there’s a reason your husband walked out.”
The words hit like a slap.
Guests shifted awkwardly. Some looked away. James took the baby, and they left without another word. The car door slammed. Tyres crunched over gravel.
Margaret stood alone in the car park, surrounded by strangers’ joy, strangers’ children, strangers’ truths.
Her son wasn’t hers anymore. And she knew it—too late.
