**Diary Entry**
The longing for a child weighed so heavily on Charlotte and James that it consumed their every thought, pushing them to try anything to make it happen. After countless failed pregnancies and a small fortune spent on treatments—enough to buy a decent car in pounds—it became clear they wouldn’t conceive naturally. Adoption seemed the only way, though easier said than done.
With James buried in his accounting firm, Charlotte took charge—calling agencies, filling out endless forms, scrolling through lists of children needing homes. She’d hoped for a baby, but chances were slim, so they reconsidered for an older child. Then she saw him: a three-year-old boy with eyes like a summer sky. Something in his photo spoke to her, as if she’d known him all along. After discussing it with James, they brought Oliver home.
He was sweet-natured, settling in quicker than they’d dared hope. Within weeks, he called Charlotte “Mum,” and James—well, he warmed to the role slower, but Oliver’s laughter wore him down. Life was good. Charlotte’s dream of motherhood had come true, and she thanked her stars every day.
Then one evening, everything shifted. James offered to bathe Oliver—a rare gesture that pleased Charlotte, thinking it might strengthen their bond. But minutes after the water started running, James burst out, face pale, and said, “We have to take him back!”
Charlotte went cold. “What on earth are you on about? You can’t just return a child like faulty goods!”
James wouldn’t budge. He claimed the stress was too much, that he couldn’t handle parenthood. It wasn’t like him to flip so suddenly. Something was off.
Sleepless, Charlotte dwelled on it until dawn. Then she remembered—Oliver had a small birthmark on his foot, just like James. She checked again. Nearly identical. At breakfast, she cornered James. “Out with it. What aren’t you saying?”
He cracked then. The truth? Oliver was his. Years ago, during their IVF struggles, James had a fling with a woman he met at a pub in Manchester—just once, he swore. But when he saw that birthmark during bath time, it hit him like a lorry.
The betrayal cut deep. Charlotte had endured rounds of treatments, the heartache, while he’d stepped out. Worse, he’d been ready to abandon his own son to hide it. That was the line.
They divorced. James visits Oliver sporadically, sends the odd present. But Charlotte knows she made the right choice. A man who’d discard his child to save face isn’t one worth keeping. Some wounds don’t heal, but you learn to live with the scar.
