**Diary Entry 15th March, 2024**
I never imagined that evening would turn out the way it did. My husband, Simon, stood before me with a face like stone, his words cutting through the silence of our London flat like a bolt from the blue. In my arms, I clutched our little boy, Tobyhis small, warm body stiffening as if he sensed something terrible was happening, even before he could understand the words.
Toby was more than just a child. He was a miracle. One Id prayed for years to have. At thirty-seven, Id nearly given up hope, resigned to the idea that motherhood might never be mine. Years of trying, hoping, heartbreakand then, at last, that positive test. The doctors warned me about my age, but I refused to give up. When Simon found out, his eyes lit up like they had on our wedding day. He spoiled melavish meals, evening walks through Regents Park, the best obstetricians in Harley Street. He talked about our family becoming *complete*, like something out of those old black-and-white films. He was happy. Or so I thought.
The birth was difficult, but Toby arrived safe and sound. The day we left the hospital, though, Simon was different. Distant. No tears, no embracesjust a curt *”Lets go.”* I told myself it was exhaustion, stress. But deep down, a warning bell rang. Still, things seemed to settle. He spent hours by Tobys crib, learning how to hold him, helping with night feeds. I convinced myself it was just a phase.
Nine months passed. Toby grew stronger, laughing, babbling. Id started weaning him but kept breastfeedingour paediatrician recommended it, and it comforted us both. Then, one evening, Simon came home from work and snapped, *”Enough. Hes too old for this. Hes a boy, not a girlthis isnt normal.”*
I flinched. I hadnt heard that tone in years. But it was only the beginning.
Day by day, he grew colder. His smiles vanished. Gifts stopped. Even a simple *”thanks”* for dinner became rare. Then, the final blow.
*”Youre old,”* he said, shrugging off his blazer. *”Face it. Toby needs a young, energetic mothernot a woman who looks like his grandmother. Im leaving. And Im taking him. Theres someone else. Shell be his real mother. You? Youve served your purposeyou carried him, you birthed him. The flats yours. Well divorce quietly. I wont humiliate you. But I wont stay.”*
I stood frozen, my heart hammering. Was this a joke? But his eyes were ice. No mockery. Just contempt.
*”Simon are you serious?”* My voice shook. *”This isnt funny.”*
*”Dead serious,”* he replied. *”Shes younger. Smarter. And she actually wants to be a mother. You? You havent worked in years. When was the last time you left the house without Toby? When did you last think about yourself?”*
Every word was a knife. Yes, Id given up my career. Yes, Id poured everything into our family. But was that a crime? Was that reason enough to betray me?
*”Youre not taking him,”* I managed, the ground crumbling beneath me.
*”Its not up for debate.”* His voice was steel. *”If you fight me, Ill throw you out. Where will you go? To your sister, barely making ends meet? To your mum, scraping by on her pension? I can give Toby everythingthe best schools, holidays, security. What can you offer? You cant even guarantee his next meal.”*
He spoke like a man who knew the systembecause he did. A solicitor with connections. He wasnt bluffing.
That night, I didnt sleep. I sat by Tobys crib, stroking his hair, whispering promises, terrified Id wake to an empty flat. Simon didnt leave immediately. He came and went, but hopefragile as it waslingered.
Then, the knock at the door.
Police.
*”Youre under arrest for neglect and child endangerment,”* one said flatly.
I stared in horror. It was a lie. I adored my son. But Simon stood behind them, stone-faced. He didnt look at me. Just nodded.
*”Toby stays with me,”* he said. *”For his safety.”*
They took me. Three days in a cell. No solicitor. No explanation. When they finally released me, the flat was empty. Just dust and silence.
Simon came that evening, smug. *”Now you see whos in control. Try anything, and Ill bury you.”*
*”Youre monstrous,”* I whispered, my insides turning to ice. *”Do you really think some other woman can love Toby like I do? She doesnt know his scent, his first cry, the weight of him in her arms”*
*”She already loves him,”* he interrupted. *”She calls him her son. Cries when he cries. You? Youre just a washed-up relic.”*
He left, slamming the door. I slid to the floor, sobbed until I was hollow. Then, one thought remained: *I have to fight. For him. For my boy.*
I called my sister. Her husband, a detective, listened grimly. *”Rita Im sorry. With his connections, youre outmatched. Unless you find someone just as powerful.”*
Simon filed for divorce. I went to court, praying the judge would see reasonthat a mother shouldnt be torn from her child. But the hearing was postponed.
*”Simons had an accident,”* his colleague, Emily, told me. *”Critical condition. The cars wrecked. He was alone. Tobys with *her*wherever she is.”*
I rushed to the hospital. They wouldnt let me in. I stood outside ICU, sick with fear. *Wheres Toby? Whos holding him? Whos feeding him?*
Thena knock.
I didnt want to answer. But something made me open the door.
A young woman stood there. Toby in her arms. His eyes were red, cheeks hollow.
*”Take him,”* she sneered. *”And take your husband too. Hes crippled for life. Not what I signed up for.”*
She left. I barely noticed. I clutched Toby, kissed him, wept. He screamed, clung to me like hed never let go.
*”Mummys here,”* I whispered. *”Always.”*
But I knew Simon wouldnt give up. Once he recovered, the nightmare would restart.
So, I made my choice. A teaching job in a village. Fresh air. Quiet life. An old friend whod help with Toby. Somewhere hed never find us.
I visited Simon in hospital. Pale, broken, in a wheelchair.
*”Rita dont go,”* he begged. *”We had years together. I made a mistake. I wanted to come back”*
I looked at him and saw a stranger. A pitiful man who only cared whod wipe his chin.
*”Were leaving,”* I said. *”No court will give you Toby now. The flats yours. Do what you want. Maybe youll fight. Or maybe youll rot. But I wont stay. Not after you tried to take my son.”*
He screamed, cursed, called me a traitor. But his threats were empty.
After discharge, he went to rehab. Blamed the other driver, the doctorsnever himself. Still believes I shouldve stayed. That I *owed* him.
But I live in a different world now.
A village where roosters crow at dawn. Where children run barefoot through grass. Where the air smells of pine and fresh milk. Where my pupils call me *”Miss Whitmore”* with respect. Where my son laughs, plays, thrives.
Ive married a new life. Freedom. A love for my son that no betrayal could break.
And Simon? Hes alone. In his wheelchair. With his bitterness. Still asking: *Why didnt she stay?*
Hell never understand.
Because betrayal isnt just walking away. Its trying to steal what matters most.
