**Mummies**
“Good morning, mummies. How are we all doing?” A striking obstetrician-gynecologist stepped into the postnatal ward early in the morning. In her crisp white coat and starched cap, she looked radiant.
She approached the bed nearest the door, where a young mother lay curled toward the wall.
“Elisabeth, don’t pretend you’re asleep. Turn onto your back. I need to examine your abdomen,” the doctor ordered firmly.
Elisabeth reluctantly obeyed. Katherine recognized her at once—they had both given birth the night before. The doctor bent down, flipped back the blanket, lifted the worn hospital gown, and pressed gently on the girl’s belly.
“Excellent. They’ll bring your son for feeding soon. Ready?” The doctor straightened up, tucking the blanket back over her.
The young mother’s eyes flew open in panic.
“I won’t nurse him,” she whispered, voice trembling.
“And why not?”
“Please… don’t bring him to me.” Elisabeth stared up at the doctor, pleading.
“What’s this, then? You don’t want to see your son? You want to give him up?” The doctor frowned.
Elisabeth nodded. The woman sighed disapprovingly before turning sharply.
“Right. I’ll finish my rounds, and then we’ll talk. Think it over.” She moved to Katherine’s bed.
“And how are you?” The doctor leaned in. “All good. Second baby? Ready to nurse?”
“Yes, of course,” Katherine answered quickly.
The doctor studied her for a moment, as if about to say something, then glanced back at Elisabeth—now facing the wall again—before sighing and leaving.
Once the door shut, Katherine sat up, swinging her legs over the edge.
“What’s your name?” Silence. “We delivered together last night, remember? Me, just after you. Listen… why don’t you want to see your boy?”
Still no reply.
“My son’s nearly five now…” Katherine trailed off, then suddenly asked, “Did his father leave? Was it too late for… you know? You think you can’t raise him alone? They say if God gives a child, He’ll provide. You’ll see.” She spoke to the rigid curve of Elisabeth’s back.
“If you leave him here, he’ll go to foster care. Never know your warmth, your smell. Strangers will care for him. He’ll search their eyes, hoping one’s his mum. But they’ll come and go—they’ve their own kids. And he’ll cry for you.
Then off to an orphanage. He’ll spend his life waiting, searching. Think you’ll forget him? Cross him out? Time will pass, and you’ll regret it. And if he’s adopted… another woman will be ‘Mum.'”
“Stop it!” Elisabeth’s voice choked with tears. “You don’t know me!”
“True,” Katherine admitted. “But no one gives up a baby lightly—not after labor, pain, hearing that first cry. And honestly? Good riddance to that bloke. Weak, useless. Couldn’t love you, won’t love his son. You can be a single mum with or without a husband.
I married mine at uni. Sat final exams with a belly like a beach ball. Stress sent me early. Thought I’d pleased him—men want sons, right? But fatherhood never ‘took.’ And I? Clueless.
When we brought Oliver home, I expected a new cot, pram, tiny outfits… Instead, my mother-in-law dragged out her granddaughter’s old things. My husband borrowed a battered pram from mates. ‘No money for new,’ he said.
Broke my heart, seeing my boy in pink hand-me-downs. We weren’t paupers! Later, when he earned well? Still scraps from nephews. My parents helped, but babies grow fast. When I complained, he’d snap, ‘Get a job if you want frills.’ Like Oliver was just mine.
He needled me daily for not working. But between feeds, nappies, walks—when did I breathe? Let myself go, too. Post-baby weight, nothing fit. Not a word of help from him.
By Oliver’s second birthday, I crumbled—put him in nursery. My heart bled. With a living husband! But what choice? All he cared about was money.
The moment I started working? He took a loan for a flash car. Still ‘no money.’ You should’ve seen my work clothes—stretched like sausage casings. Humiliating. Oliver in rags, me worse, while he preened in a BMW.
Other mums at the park bragged—diamond rings, fur coats from doting husbands. I hadn’t earned so much as a new dress. Made excuses: ‘We’re just starting out…’
Mum saved me once, saw my state, bought me proper clothes.
The rows got vicious. I cried constantly. Then I found out about his mistress.
‘What did you expect? Look at you,’ he’d sneer—my weight, my clothes.
I packed Oliver’s things and left. He half-heartedly begged me back. Next day, moved her into our flat. Thought I’d die of grief. Didn’t.
Before the divorce, he wheedled: ‘Skip child support. I’ll give more under the table.’ I refused—rightly. He paid squat.
Met someone at work—older, kind. Drove us to appointments. I liked him but feared commitment. Once bitten… Took two years to remarry.
He adored Oliver, wanted kids—his ex hadn’t. When I got pregnant? Over the moon. Ex-husband panicked, demanded Oliver ‘half-time.’ Threatened court. His mum nagged for visits.
Then I was hospitalized—had to let Oliver go. He called daily, thrilled: new toys, treats. I relaxed… too soon.
At discharge, my ex-mother-in-law stalled: ‘Let him stay. Rest.’ I agreed—high-risk pregnancy, and he was happy.
Then my ex dumped him back. No fight. ‘Too expensive,’ he whined. Toys, clothes, mortgage, car payments…
I hugged Oliver, sobbing. My husband was thrilled—family whole again.
Oliver confessed: ‘Lived with Gran. Dad barely visited. No toys, just Gran.’
So there. Married, yet a single mum. Better no man than that. And he’d threatened to take my boy!
First marriages often fail. Young, foolish. Seek love, but choose a father first. I did, second time. You’re young, pretty—you’ll manage.
I’ve boxes of baby clothes. Once I worked, bought Oliver everything. He outgrew it all. Yours if you want. Breast milk’s free; I’ll help with the rest. Mum’ll pitch in.”
Elisabeth had turned, listening intently.
“Mum told me to leave him here,” she murmured.
“Rubbish. She’ll hold that baby and melt. Won’t let you near him after!”
The door opened. A nurse entered, carrying a bundle.
“Here’s your daughter. Know how to latch her?” She handed Katherine the swaddled infant.
Katherine cradled the baby, overwhelmed, tracing the tiny face for familiar features.
“Will you bring my son?” Elisabeth’s voice was steady.
The nurse paused, surprised. “Elisabeth? Good. I’ll fetch him.”
Katherine beamed at her.
“I’m Emily. You’re Katherine, right? Help me? I’m terrified,” Emily admitted shyly.
Minutes later, the nurse returned. Emily’s son latched hungrily. The women murmured over their babies.
They were discharged together. Emily’s mum waited; Katherine’s parents and husband stood with Oliver in the lobby. They swapped numbers.
Soon, they pushed prams together in the park. Katherine shared tips. They celebrated birthdays. Emily’s boyfriend returned; they married.
And to think—she’d nearly abandoned her child, missed all this joy.
Marriage is a lottery. Never know what husband—what father—you’ll get. Takes years to learn a man. Sometimes a lifetime.
May every child have love. From both.
