Dont look at me like that! I dont want this baby. Take it away! the stranger shouted, thrusting a baby carrier into my hands. I had no idea what was happening.
James and I had always lived in harmony. We scarcely ever argued. I tried to be a proper wife and housewife. We married while we were still at university, then I fell pregnant and we had twins. When the children were older we started a small family business. I only helped James occasionally, because I had to look after the kids and keep the house in order. I especially loved cooking.
Every weekend James expected me to make him something delicious. I tried to invent a new dish each time, and he was the chief tastetester. The children were always curious about what Mum would be cooking that day. Amid all the chores, the children, the housework and the business, I never paid much attention to what James was doing. I never imagined he could betray me. The truth is that the past year had been very hard for us. The shop was struggling, and James and I saved whatever we could. He even had to travel around the country signing new supply contracts. The kids were starting Year1, so I was at home with them.
One afternoon, as James and I were driving home from work, a striking woman stepped out of the road. We got out of the car, and the stranger walked straight to me, pressing a stroller into my grip.
Dont stare at me! I dont want this baby if it doesnt want to be with me. Take it away! she screamed, pointing a finger at James.
I stood there, bewildered.
You promised to leave her and be with me! If you dont, I wont have this child! she spat at my feet, turned on her heel and walked off.
I was stunned for a few minutes until I realised I was holding a baby carrier. I didnt ask James anything; his expression told me who the woman was and that he would have collapsed if he could. In silence we went back into the flat. On the sofa lay a tiny boy in a wrap, no more than two weeks old.
Pick the kids up from school and buy everything I list for the baby, James said, nodding wordlessly.
Eighteen years have passed since then. Many of my friends judged me, unable to understand why I was raising anothers child when I already had two daughters.
I never asked James about that woman. I raised the boy as my own son. My daughters were delighted to have a younger brother. We never hid the truth from him, and when he grew up we explained the whole situation. He took it calmly, never asking about his biological mother. I was happy: three wonderful children who loved us. My relationship with James has never been the same, but he does his best to repair it.
On Olivers eighteenth birthday we planned a family celebration. My daughters, now married and living elsewhere, were on their way. Just as we were about to sit down, the doorbell rang. We hadnt expected any more guests, and a unease had been lingering all day. When I opened the hallway, a slender woman who looked just like the one who had handed me the baby stood there.
Id like to speak to my son, she said.
You have no son here! Oliver and I answered together.
Oliver closed the door on her, invited everyone to the table, and tears welled up in my eyes. I was grateful for the wonderful son I had, even though he wasnt mine by blood.
In the end, love is not measured by genetics but by the care we give and the bonds we choose to nurture.
