I still recall the way hed insisted on a DNA test it was my husband who had urged it, and Id thought his mind was being twisted.
Listen, I said, Im not going to raise a child that isnt mine Tomorrow Ill look for a clinic and well have the DNA done.
He stared at me, his legs trembling. What? Youre serious? Simon, weve been together three years. I never gave you any reason to doubt.
He smirked crookedly. Then well find out. If hes mine, Ill step up, be a proper father, apologise if needed. If not
The phone on the nightstand buzzed, and I glanced at the screen another message from my husband. I unlocked the device and the flood of texts hed sent late last night, when I was weeping into my pillow, appeared at once.
Whats taking you so long?
My mother called, wants to know are you coming home soon?
Emily, I cant believe you havent given birth after sixteen hours! What are the doctors saying? Why are you silent? I cant work it out!
The most recent note, sent seven minutes earlier, read: Im downstairs. Come to the window.
A wave of tears rose, and I tried to sit up on my elbows, but the pain was too fierce. The epidural had long since worn off; even moving felt like a chore.
Good Lord I whispered, letting my head fall back onto the pillow.
The phone rang again, and I had to answer he would not leave me in peace.
Yes? I croaked. Simon, hello.
What are you still not getting up? he barked, skipping any greeting. How many times must I ask? You read my messages and never answer!
Im standing by the secondfloor windows. Look, I want to see the baby.
I closed my eyes.
Simon, I cant.
What do you mean you cant?
I cant get up. I gave birth five hours ago, theyve stitched me up. Im not allowed to sit, walking hurts. I cant even reach the sill.
A long silence hung in the line before his voice turned sour.
Other people are waving out there, he muttered. Theres a woman in the next window with a baby doll. And you? Feeling special?
Im in pain, Simon. Please, dont start.
What do you mean dont start? Am I a father or what? I just want to see my son!
He ranted, Do you realise Im standing here in my shirt, shivering, while youre holed up with a baby? Move your little butt and come to the window!
I could hold back no longer; quiet sobs escaped. I wanted him to say, Darling, how are you? Rest, I love you, just a sliver of kindness, but he offered nothing.
I cant lift the child, I whispered. Theyve told me I must stay in bed until at least evening. Go home, Simon
I hung up, but the line rang again three seconds later. I slammed the phone facedown. Tears streamed, hot and bitter. Why was he treating me like this?
A nurse popped her head into the ward, alarmed.
MrsHarper, why are you crying? Stop it at once, please. Lets try to calm down
Your milk will spoil, the baby will be hungry. Let me help you sit up, its time to feed. Whats troubling you?
My husband he wants to see the baby through the window, and I cant
The nurse clicked her tongue, smoothed the blanket and, dropping the formal tone, said, You lot are a handful. Tell him to calm down this is a maternity ward, not a circus!
Look at him demanding! she added. Dont weep, its not worth it. Rest, you need your strength. Think of the little one first.
Simons messages kept coming, one after another, each colder than the last. I read them and felt a chill settle deep inside.
Hiding it, are you?
Show the child, Im asking! Is he even healthy?
Maybe he isnt mine if youre keeping him hidden?
Only a proper wife would show a husband his first child. What are you doing, hiding?
Fear gripped me. After three years together, never had he behaved like this. Id believed Id married a dependable man, a protector for life. I was wrong.
Summoning all the strength my sore body could muster, I reached for the cot. The infant lay there, his tiny nose crinkled in sleep, his skin pink and raw like any newborn, a dark tuft of hair sprouting on his head. I snapped a picture. My hands shook, the image came out a little blurred, but his face was clear. I hit send.
His reply was instant.
Whats this?
I typed back, Our son. Milo.
He called right away.
Emily, are you kidding me?
What are you on about? I asked, confused.
Look at him! Hes black!
What? Simon, are you out of your mind? Hes redcheeked, just born!
His hair! he shouted, so loud I had to pull the phone away. My hair is brown, yours blonde, but his is light. And his skinlike coal! Whose child is he? The neighbours? The taxi drivers?
I was beside myself.
Youre insane! I exhaled. Most newborns have dark hair that lightens later! Their skin is red because the blood vessels are close to the surface. Ask any doctor!
Dont lecture me! Simon snapped. Im not blind. White parents have white babies.
He went on, So what? Thats why you didnt come to the window.
I felt ashamed to look him in the eye.
Fine, I muttered, hanging up. I blocked his number; the tears made it hard to breathe. The baby let out a tiny whimper, demanding attention.
I managed to swing my legs over the edge of the bed, wincing at the stitches, and cradled Milo in my arms.
Its alright, love, I whispered, rocking him, swallowing my salty tears. We have each other, and thats all we need, my little treasure.
Three days in the maternity ward passed like a fog. I barely slept, feeding, changing nappies, listening to the nurses advice, while a single thought kept looping: how to get home?
Simon stopped calling, sending only dry texts: What to buy? What time to pick up? No I love you, no I miss you.
The discharge papers felt like a farce. I shuffled into the hospital lobby, pale, dark circles under my eyes that no concealer could hide. A nurse followed, carrying an envelope tied with a blue ribbon.
Simon stood by the doors, a wilted bouquet of roses clutched in his hand, bought from the kiosk outside. His face was stone, no hint of happiness. Beside him, his mother, Irene, shifted from foot to foot.
Congratulations! the nurse announced loudly, thrusting the envelope toward him.
Simon took the baby, grimaced, and held the envelope out, eyes fixed somewhere above my head. He didnt even glance at his sons face.
Thanks, he muttered.
Irene nudged the corner of the envelope.
Oh, how tiny! Sleeping? Thank heavens, were all safe. Lets get home, why linger?
We drove in silence. Simons driving was harsh, the wheel jerked, brakes slammed at each traffic light. I sat in the back, clutching Milo tight.
Could you drive a bit softer? I pleaded as the car shuddered over a pothole. Hes in the back.
Its fine, he snapped, looking into the rearview mirror. If you dont like it, walk.
At home, the kitchen light flickered on. Simon tossed his keys onto the hall table without even taking off his shoes.
Is there anything to eat? he shouted from the kitchen.
I was stunned.
Simon, Ive just been in the hospital three days. Ive only just walked in! Where am I supposed to get food?
Order something. Or shall I stand at the stove? I was working while you were resting.
He spat the word resting with a sneer that cut me to the bone. I placed Milo in the cot we had picked out together a month earlier and walked to the kitchen.
Can we talk? I asked quietly, leaning against the doorway. My body still ached.
Its fine, he said, putting his phone down. I was just consulting the lads and my mother.
The lads? I repeated. Youre discussing our child with who?
Im discussing the situation! he bellowed, slamming his palm on the table. Emily, no drama. The child doesnt look like me at all. Hes darkhaired, eyes almost black. We have no such traits in our family.
He stepped closer, his breath hot on my face.
Bottom line, he said, Im not going to raise someone who isnt mine. Tomorrow Ill find a clinic, well do a DNA test.
My what? My legs gave way. Are you serious? Simon, weve been together three years. I never gave you any cause to doubt.
He chuckled, a crooked smile. Then well test. If hes mine, Ill be a proper father, no questions asked. Ill even apologise. If not
Milo began to cry, his tiny wail echoing through the room.
Go, quiet him down, Simon snapped, turning toward the window. Hes just a wailmaker, not my type.
I stared at his broad back, at the familiar shirt I had ironed for him before labour, and realised the Simon Id known was gone. My family, my life, were stripped away.
I turned away, lifted Milo to my chest; his small body stilled instantly, soothed by my warmth.
Shhh, little one, shhh I murmured. Im here. Mum is by your side.
Five minutes later Simon peeked back in.
So? Will you agree to the test, or are you scared?
I met his gaze.
Do it, I said evenly. Find a clinic, pay the fees, run your test.
Thats better, he muttered, a hint of triumph. At least youre not making a scene.
But remember, Simon, I cut in, voice steady, when the results come back and they say youre not the father, youll realize youve lost not just me, but also my son. Ill never forgive that.
Youre accusing me when I need help? he snorted, waving his hand. No drama, just plain truth.
He stalked off to the living room, flicked on the television, and lost himself in a soap. I looked at Milo, his dark little curls tickling my cheek, the very feature that had driven my husband mad.
Itll be alright, I whispered, kissing his forehead. Let them write what they will.
Two months later, a call jolted me awake. Simons voice, hoarse and pleading, filled the line.
Emily, please, come back. Ive realised everything, Ive changed. The lads and my mother they convinced me. Im ready to accept Milo as my son, Ill pay alimony, every penny, down to the last pence. I wont ask for the division the court awarded.
I hung up. He eventually had the test done; the results were positive, confirming his paternity. I filed for divorce, for alimony, and for a fair split of our joint assets.
I moved into a modest flat that my parents helped me rent. And, contrary to his betrayal, I found a quiet happiness. After all, why should I cling to a man who proved himself a traitor?
