**Diary Entry**
It wasn’t his child!
Olivia and James left the maternity hospital, beaming with joy. James held a tiny pink bundle in his arms—his newborn son, long-awaited and adored, softly dozing under a knitted blanket. Relatives, friends, even the midwife cheered, handing over bouquets and congratulations. Everything was just as Olivia had dreamed.
“Thank you, darling,” James whispered, “for our son.”
But Olivia’s face suddenly paled.
“Look—your mum’s coming…”
Hastening toward them was Margaret—James’s mother. Stern, upright, unyielding. Had she taken time off work? Unlikely without reason.
“James! Don’t do this!” she snapped instead of a greeting.
“What?” He froze.
“Don’t take that child. He isn’t yours!”
Silence fell like a hammer. Olivia flinched as if struck.
“Mum, have you lost your mind?” James stared at her, barely recognising her.
It had begun three months ago when James first confessed: he was in love. With an older woman. A single mother. And—pregnant by another man.
Margaret was horrified. She’d tried to stay out of it, to bite her tongue. Hoped it was just a phase. But then James announced his plans: marriage, adopting her eldest, and raising the unborn baby as his own.
“Have you gone mad?” Margaret had burst out then.
“Mum, this is my choice. I love her. And those children. I’ll be their father.”
“You’re young! You could start fresh—have children of your own!”
“They *will* be mine,” James said firmly.
She’d even attempted reasoning with Olivia. Invited her for tea. No shouting, just cold logic.
“You’re a mother—so am I. I’ve nothing against you. But is it fair? Raising another man’s child as his own?”
Olivia only smirked.
“Want me to vanish? Waste your breath. James loves me. And I love him. We’re staying together—whether you like it or not.”
After that, Olivia stopped acknowledging her. James dodged conversations. Phones went silent.
Margaret suffered. Cried into her pillow at night. Turned to her ex-husband—he brushed her off. Even her sister, when she complained, said, “Let him be happy.”
But Margaret *knew*. He couldn’t see the trap. And no one else would save him.
Through a cousin, she learned the discharge date. And so she went—one last try to make him see.
“Son, please…” Her voice trembled before the gathered well-wishers. “That boy isn’t yours. Don’t make this mistake. It’s not too late.”
Olivia clutched the baby to her chest like a shield.
“Mum, leave,” James said quietly but icily. “This is *my son*. I’m taking him home. Nothing you say will change that.”
“Olivia,” Margaret turned to her, “you’re grown. You’ve two children now. Can’t you see how much this hurts? Watching my son turned into a walking wallet?”
“Enough,” Olivia cut in sharply. “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. No wonder your husband left.”
The words landed like a slap.
The crowd stood silent. Some looked away; others pretended not to hear. James took the baby, and they left—car doors slamming, engine growling.
Margaret stood alone in the car park. Surrounded by strangers’ laughter, strangers’ joy.
Her son was no longer hers. And she knew it now. Too late.
***Lesson learned: Love blinds, but sometimes, so does pride.***
