“You’re just an old woman nowour son needs a young mother, not a grandmother! I’m leaving, and Im taking the child with me!” hissed her husband.
That evenings events were something Rita could never have foreseen, not even in her worst nightmares. Her husband, Simon, stood before her with an icy glare, his words slicing through the silence of their flat like a thunderclap on a clear day. Clutched tightly in her arms was their little boy, Tobya fragile, warm bundle whose breath was her only light in the darkness. Her heart clenched as she felt him tense in her grip, as though, though still unable to speak, he already understood something terrible was unfolding.
Toby wasnt just a child. He was a miracle. A miracle Rita had prayed for over long, aching years. At thirty-seven, shed nearly resigned herself to the idea that motherhood was happiness that had slipped through her fingers. Years of trying, hoping, despairinguntil finally, that long-awaited positive test. The doctors warned her age wasnt on her side, but she refused to give up. And when Simon found out she was pregnant, his eyes had sparkled just like they had on their wedding day. He drenched her in love, care, luxurydeclaring their family would finally be whole, just like in the old films. Evening strolls, organic groceries, the finest doctors, fortnightly scans, recording every kick. He was happy. At least, it had seemed so.
The birth was difficult but successful. The day they left the hospital, Simon arrived to collect thembut his behaviour was off. Restrained, almost cold. No tears, no embrace, just a clipped, “Right, lets go.” Rita chalked it up to exhaustion, stress. But deep down, a warning bell chimed. Soon, though, things settled. He spent hours by Tobys cot, learning to hold him, helping with night feeds. She reassured herself. Everything was fine. Just an adjustment.
Nine months passed. Toby grew stronger, giggling, babbling. Rita introduced solids but kept breastfeedingjust as the paediatrician advised, just as felt right for both of them. Then one evening, Simon returned from work and snapped, “Enough. Time to wean him. Hes a boy, not a girlstill on the breast past a year? Its unnatural!”
Rita flinched. That harsh toneshe hadnt heard it in so long. But it was only the beginning.
Each day, he grew colder. His gaze distant, his words clipped. No gifts. No flowers. Even a simple “thank you” for dinner became rare. Then, like a bolt from the blue, came the final blow.
“Youre old,” he said, shrugging off his jacket without looking at her. “Face it. Toby needs a young, lively mothernot a woman who looks like his grandmother. Im leaving. And Im taking him. Theres someone elseshell be a proper mum to him. You? You served your purpose: carried him, birthed him. So Ill let you keep the flat. Well divorce quietly. No scenes. But I wont stay with you a day longer.”
Rita stood frozen. Her heart hammered. This couldnt be real. Was he joking? But nohis eyes held no humour. Only ice. Only contempt.
“Simon are you alright?” she whispered, voice trembling. “Is this a joke? Its not April Fools. Do you hear what youre saying?”
“Im not joking,” he replied coldly. “Ive been with her for months. Shes prettier, smarter, younger. And most importantly? She wants to be a mother. You? You cant even work. When did you last step outside without Toby? When did you last think of yourself?”
Each word stabbed like a knife. Yes, shed left her job. Yes, shed devoted herself to the family. But was that a crime? Was that reason enough for betrayal?
“I wont let you take him,” she forced out, feeling the ground crumble beneath her.
“Its not up for debate,” he cut in. “If you refuse, Ill throw you out. Where will you go? To your sister, barely scraping by? To your mum, who cant afford bread? I can give Toby everythingtop schools, hobbies, holidays, safety. You? You cant even promise him tomorrow.”
He spoke with the confidence of a man who knew his power. And he was right. Simon worked in the courts. He had connections. He knew how the system workedand he wasnt afraid to use it.
That night, Rita didnt sleep. She sat by Tobys cot, stroking his hair, whispering comfortsterrified that if she closed her eyes, shed wake to an empty flat. But Simon didnt leave yet. He came less, but he lingered. A fragile hope remained.
Then came the knock at the door. Police officers stood on the threshold.
“Youre under arrest for habitual alcohol abuse, child neglect, and parental misconduct,” one stated flatly.
Rita stared in horror. It was a farce. She didnt drink. She adored her son. But Simon stood behind them, stone-faced. He didnt look at her. Just nodded.
“My son stays with me,” he said. “Ill keep him safe.”
They took her away. Three days in a cell. No lawyer. No explanation. No contact. When they finally released her, the flat was empty. Just dust on the shelves and silence ringing with betrayal.
Simon visited that evening. He sat across from her, cold superiority in his gaze.
“I showed you whos in charge,” he said. “Try anythingIll lock you up for good.”
“Youre a monster,” she whispered, feeling something inside her freeze solid. “You think another woman can love Toby like his mother? She doesnt know his smell, his first cry, how it felt to hold him when he was born. She cant”
“She already loves him,” he interrupted. “She calls him her son. She cries when he cries. You? Youre just a washed-up old woman.”
He left, slamming the door. Rita slid down the wall, crumpled to the floor, hugged her knees, and wept. But the tears didnt last. Only emptiness remained. And one thought: *I have to fight. For him. For my son.*
She called her sister. Told her everything. Her sister passed the phone to her husbanda man in law enforcement.
“Rita Im sorry,” he said. “With his connections, you cant win alone. But if you want to fightyou need someone just as powerful. Someone who can corner him.”
Simon filed for divorce. Rita went to court, clinging to hope that at least the judge would see a mother shouldnt be torn from her child. But the hearing was postponed.
“Simons had an accident,” his colleague, Theresa, said. “Critical condition. ICU. His cars wrecked. He was alone. The boys probably with his new woman. No one knows where.”
Rita rushed to the hospital. They wouldnt let her in. She stood outside ICU, shaking with fear for Toby. Where was he? Who was feeding him? Who soothed him when he cried?
Thena knock at her door.
She didnt want to answer. But something told her: *Open it.*
A young woman stood there. In her armsToby. His eyes were red, cheeks hollow.
“Take him,” the woman spat. “And take your husband too. Hes disabled now. Doctors say its permanent. I didnt sign up for that. The flats yours. Sort your own mess.”
She left. Rita didnt watch her go. She clutched Toby, kissed him, wept. He screamed, clung to her as if afraid shed vanish again.
“Mummys here,” she whispered. “Always. Youre mine. Mine.”
But she knewSimon wouldnt give up. Once he recovered, it would all start again.
She made her choice. A teaching job in a village school. A remote hamlet. Clean air. Peace. An old friend promised help with Toby. There, hed be safe.
She visited Simon in hospital. He lay pale, broken, in a wheelchair.
“Rita dont go,” he begged. “All these years I made a mistake. I wanted to come back. I regret”
She looked at him and saw a stranger. A pitiful man who only thought of himself. Whod need help to drink, to dress.
“Were leaving,” she said firmly. “No court will give you Toby. You cant even care for yourself. The flats yours. Do what you want. Maybe youll find the strength to rebuild. Or not. But I wont stay. Never. You took my son. You broke me. I wont forgive that.”
He screamed, threatened, called her a traitor. But his voice was weak. His threatsempty.
After discharge, he went to rehab. He cursed fate, the other driver, the
