“He’s Not Your Child!”
Lucy and James stepped out of the maternity ward, beaming with joy. James cradled a tiny pink bundle—their newborn son, long-awaited and dearly loved, softly snuggled in a soft blanket. Relatives, friends, and the midwife cheered, offering congratulations and flowers. Everything was just as Lucy had dreamed.
“Thank you, darling,” James whispered, “for our son.”
But Lucy suddenly paled.
“Look… your mother’s coming.”
Margaret Holloway—James’s mother—marched toward them. Stern, upright, unyielding. Had she taken time off work? Unlikely without good reason.
“James! Don’t do this!” she snapped in place of a greeting.
“What?” he stammered.
“Don’t take that child. He isn’t yours!”
Silence fell like a hammer. Lucy flinched as if struck.
“Mum, have you lost your mind?” James stared at her, bewildered.
It had begun three months earlier, when James first confessed he was in love—with an older woman who already had a child. And worse, she was pregnant by another man.
Margaret was horrified. She’d tried not to interfere, to bite her tongue, hoping it was just a passing phase. But then James announced his plans to marry her. Not just that—he wanted to adopt her eldest and raise the unborn child as his own.
“Have you gone mad?” Margaret had blurted then.
“Mother, it’s 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 Lucy. Invited her for tea. Kept her voice level, her words measured.
“Understand, you’re a mother, and so am I. I don’t dislike you. But is this fair? You’ll bear another man’s child, and my son will raise it?”
Lucy had just smirked.
“You want me to disappear? Save your breath. I love James. And he loves me. We’re staying together—whether you like it or not.”
From that day, Lucy stopped acknowledging her. James avoided the topic. Phone calls went unanswered.
Margaret was miserable. She wept at night. Turned to her ex-husband—he dismissed her. Even her sister, whom she confided in, said, “If he’s happy, that’s all that matters.”
But Margaret knew better. He didn’t understand what he was walking into. He was blind. And only she, his mother, could see how badly he was being played.
Through a cousin, she learned the discharge date. And she vowed—she would be there. One last attempt to stop him. To make him see sense.
“Son, please…” Her voice trembled before the gathered well-wishers. “That child isn’t yours. Don’t make this mistake. It’s not too late to walk away.”
Lucy clutched the baby tighter, as if shielding him from an enemy.
“Mum, leave,” James said quietly, but with steel. “This is my son. And I’m taking him home. Nothing you say will change that.”
“Lucy,” Margaret turned to her, “you’re a grown woman with two children. Can’t you see how much this hurts me? Watching my son turned into nothing but a walking wallet?”
“Stop it,” Lucy cut in sharply. “I had this baby with a man who abandoned me. James chose to stay—that’s his decision. And you have no right to interfere.”
“I have every right to be his mother!” Margaret shouted. “And you—you’re just taking advantage of his kindness!”
“And you’re just a bitter woman no one listens to. No wonder your husband left.”
The words landed like a slap.
The crowd shifted uncomfortably. Some looked away. Others pretended not to hear. James took the baby, guiding Lucy to their car. The doors slammed. The engine rumbled to life.
Margaret stood alone in the car park, surrounded by strangers’ joy, strangers’ children, strangers’ truths.
Her son was no longer hers. And she finally understood—too late.
Some bonds, once broken, can never be mended. Love demands sacrifice, but pride leaves only emptiness.
