“It’s Not Your Child!”
Emily and James stepped out of the maternity ward, beaming with joy. James clutched a tiny pink bundle—his newborn son, long-awaited and already adored, snoozing peacefully under a soft blanket. Relatives, friends, even the midwife cheered, showered them in congratulations, and handed over bouquets. It was everything Emily had dreamed of.
“Thank you, love,” James whispered, brushing her cheek. “For our son.”
But Emily suddenly went pale.
“Look… your mum’s here.”
Marching toward them was Margaret—James’s mother. Stern, rigid, and entirely out of place in this moment of celebration. She’d taken time off work? Unlikely without an agenda.
“James!” she barked instead of a greeting. “Don’t do this!”
“What?” He blinked at her.
“Don’t take that child. He’s not yours!”
A deafening silence fell. Emily flinched like she’d been slapped.
“Mum, have you lost the plot?” James stared at her, uncomprehending.
It had all started three months ago when James first confessed—he was in love. With an older woman. Who already had a child. And was, incidentally, pregnant with someone else’s baby.
Margaret had been horrified. She’d tried to stay out of it, to let him “get it out of his system.” But then James announced he was marrying her. Worse—he intended to adopt her eldest *and* the baby she was carrying.
“Have you gone mad?” Margaret had snapped.
“Mum, it’s my choice. I love her. And I love those kids. I *will* be their father.”
“But you’re young! You could have a family with a woman who doesn’t come with all this… baggage!”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” James said firmly.
She’d tried reasoning with Emily. Invited her to a café. Kept it civil.
“Look, you’re a mother, I’m a mother. I don’t dislike you. But is this fair? You’ll have one man’s child, and my son will raise it?”
Emily had just smirked.
“You want me to vanish? Waste of breath. James loves me. I love him. We’re together, whether you like it or not.”
After that, Emily stopped saying hello. James dodged conversations. Phones went silent.
Margaret suffered. Cried at night. Rang her ex-husband—he brushed her off. Even her sister, usually her ally, just 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 spot the strings being pulled.
Through her nephew, she’d learned the discharge date. And she’d decided—she’d be there. One last attempt to stop him. To make him *see*.
“Son, please…” Her voice trembled in front of everyone. “That baby isn’t yours. Don’t make this mistake. It’s not too late.”
Emily clutched the child to her chest like he was under siege.
“Mum, leave,” James said quietly, steel in his tone. “This *is* my son. And I’m taking him home. Nothing you say will change that.”
“Emily,” Margaret turned to her, “you’re a grown woman with two children. Surely you understand my pain? Watching my son turned into a glorified wallet?”
“Enough,” Emily snapped. “I had a baby with a man who walked out. James chose to stay—that’s his right. You don’t get a say.”
“I have a right to be his mother!” Margaret shouted. “And you—you’re just taking advantage of his kindness!”
“And you’re a bitter woman no one listens to. Bet it’s no wonder your husband left.”
The words landed like a punch.
Guests shifted awkwardly. Some looked away, others feigned interest in their shoes. James scooped up the baby, and without another word, he and Emily walked to the car. Doors slammed. The engine roared to life.
Margaret stood alone in the car park, surrounded by strangers’ laughter, strangers’ children, strangers’ truths.
Her son wasn’t hers anymore. And she knew it.
Too late.
