**Mummies**
A crisp morning light spilled into the postnatal ward as a striking obstetrician entered, her white coat starched to perfection, her cap perched high. She radiated effortless grace.
Approaching the bed nearest the door, she found a young mother turned toward the wall.
“Emma Dawson, stop pretending to sleep. Roll onto your back. I need to examine you,” she instructed firmly.
With reluctance, Emma obeyed. Kate recognized her instantly—they had given birth hours apart. The doctor leaned in, peeled back the blanket, lifted the worn hospital gown, and pressed a practiced hand against the girl’s stomach.
“Good. They’ll bring your son soon for his feed. Are you ready?” she asked, straightening up and smoothing the blanket back into place.
The young mother’s eyes flew open, fear flashing in them.
“I won’t feed him,” she whispered, voice tight.
“Why ever not?”
“Don’t bring him. Please.” Emma’s pleading gaze locked onto the doctor.
“Good heavens, Emma. You don’t want to see your own son? You wish to give him up?”
A weak nod. The doctor exhaled, disapproval sharp in her stare.
“Right. I’ll finish my rounds, then we’ll talk. You’ve time to reconsider.” She turned sharply and stepped toward Kate.
“And how are you?” The doctor bent over her. “Excellent. Second birth? Shall we bring your baby for feeding?”
“Yes, of course,” Kate answered quickly.
The doctor lingered, as if deciding whether to speak, then glanced back at Emma—already turned to the wall again—sighed, and left.
The moment the door clicked shut, Kate sat up, feet swinging to the floor.
“What’s your name?” Silence. “We labored side by side. You delivered just before me. Listen—why don’t you want to see your boy?”
No response.
“My son’s five now…” Kate trailed off, then blurted, “Did the father leave? Was it too late for… other choices? Do you think you can’t manage alone? They say if God gives a child, He’ll provide.” The words fell against Emma’s rigid back.
“Your boy will go straight from here to care, never knowing your touch, your warmth. Strangers will raise him. He’ll search every new face, hoping it’s you. But they’ll come and go—they have their own. He’ll cry for you, always. Then the children’s home. A lifetime of waiting. Do you think you’ll forget? Cross him out? One day, you’ll regret this. And if another woman adopts him—”
“Stop meddling!” Emma’s voice cracked. “You know nothing about me!”
“True,” Kate admitted. “But no one endures childbirth just to walk away. And honestly? Good riddance to the man. If he left, he’s weak. Would’ve been a useless father. You can be a single mother even married.”
She sighed. “My husband and I wed in university. I sat final exams nine months pregnant, nerves sending me into early labor. I thought I’d pleased him—men want sons, don’t they? But fatherhood never took root in him. And I? A clueless, overwhelmed girl.”
“Home from hospital, I expected a new crib, a pram, lovingly chosen baby clothes. Instead, my mother-in-law hauled in her granddaughter’s hand-me-downs. The pram was borrowed, battered. ‘No money for new,’ he said. My heart broke—my son dressed in pink castoffs like some charity case. Even later, when his wages improved, it was nephews’ outgrown rags. My parents helped, but children outgrow everything. When I complained, he’d snap, ‘You’ll buy him pretty things when you work.’ As if our son was mine alone.”
“He needled me constantly about not working. But between feedings, meals, walks, the baby’s cries—I barely functioned. Stopped caring how I looked. None of my clothes fit post-birth. My husband wouldn’t hear it. I’d have worked, but who’d watch the baby? My parents were years from retirement.”
“By two, I crumbled—put him in nursery. Agony. My husband alive and well, yet I scrambled like a single mother. Money was all he cared about.”
“The moment I started working, he took a loan for a flash car. Still, we pinched pennies. You should’ve seen my work clothes—stretched, shameful. My son in rags, me worse, while he drove luxury.”
“Other mothers boasted of diamond rings, fur coats from their husbands. I hadn’t earned so much as a new dress. I made excuses—young parents, sudden baby… My mum stepped in once, saw my state, bought me proper clothes.”
“The fights grew vicious. One day, I discovered his mistress. ‘Look at you,’ he’d sneer—my weight, my frumpiness. I packed our son’s things and left.”
“He half-heartedly begged me back. A week later, his mistress moved into our flat. I nearly died from grief. Survived, barely.”
“During the divorce, he begged me not to file for maintenance. Promised more cash under the table. I refused—rightly. He’d have lied.”
At work, I met an older man. He drove us to doctor’s visits. I knew he fancied me, but I was gun-shy. Months later, we married. He adored my son, longed for a child of his own—his first wife refused.
When I fell pregnant, his joy was boundless. My ex-husband, hearing of it, demanded shared custody. Threats, court. His mother called weekly, ‘missing’ her grandson. Then bed rest forced me to send my boy to them.
Daily calls reassured me—he was spoiled with toys, treats. I relaxed. But coming home, I rang his grandmother: ‘Bring him back.’ She waffled—I should rest. I agreed, pregnancy was rough, and he was happy.
Then my ex delivered him himself. No fight. ‘He’s too expensive,’ he admitted. Growth spurts, toys, outings—all costly. Mortgages, car loans…
I wept with relief, clutching my son. My husband, too, was overjoyed—our family whole again.
‘Dad hardly visited,’ my boy confessed. ‘Grandma bought everything.’
“So there. Married, yet a single mother. Better no husband than that. And he’d threatened to take my son!”
“First marriages often fail. Youth, haste—we chase love, not fathers for our children. I found mine the second time. You’re young, lovely. You’ll manage.”
“I’ve boxes of baby clothes. Once I worked, I bought my son everything new—never wore out. Yours now. And you’ve milk. The rest, we’ll manage. Your mum will help.”
Emma had turned, listening intently.
“Mum told me to leave him here,” she murmured.
“Rubbish. The moment she holds him, she’ll melt. Won’t let you near him!”
The door swung open. A nurse entered with a tiny bundle.
“Here’s your daughter. Know how to latch her?” She passed the swaddled infant to Kate, who trembled, tracing the crumpled face for familiar features.
“Will you bring my son?” Emma’s voice startled them.
The nurse blinked. “You’re Emma? Good. I’ll fetch him.”
Kate smiled.
“I’m Lily. You’re Kate, yes? Help me? I’m terrified,” she confessed.
Minutes later, another bundle arrived. Lily’s son latched hungrily. The women studied their babies, murmuring.
Discharge came together. Lily’s mother collected her; Kate’s parents and husband waited with her eldest. They exchanged numbers.
Soon, they were park regulars, pushchairs in sync. Kate dispensing advice. Shared birthdays. Lily’s boyfriend returned; they married.
Imagine—she might have missed it all.
Marriage is a lottery. You never know what manner of man you’ve chosen. Some truths take years—or a lifetime—to uncover.
May every child know a mother’s and father’s love.
