“Mum, are you out of your mind? You’re over forty-five, and you want to have a baby now? That’s absolute madness!”
After my sixteenth birthday, our family life took a sharp turn—my parents decided to separate. From the outside, their marriage had seemed steady, but beneath the surface, there must have been troubles I never noticed. The divorce was quiet, without shouting matches or bitter arguments over who got what. Dad left our two-bed flat to me and Mum, while he moved into a one-bedroom place inherited from Gran.
Eager for a fresh start, Mum sold our flat quickly, and we moved to another town. She didn’t even want to risk bumping into Dad by accident—she wanted the past well behind her. With new optimism, she settled us in: found a decent job with a good salary, rented a cosy flat, and slowly, we adjusted to our new life.
A few months later, I noticed Mum had changed. She’d always been attractive, but now she took extra care—regular trips to the salon, a wardrobe overhaul, a sparkle in her eyes. It was obvious—she was in love.
Watching her, I finally worked up the nerve to ask:
“Mum, have you met someone?”
She flushed but didn’t deny it.
“Yes, I have. His name is Thomas Whitmore—he’s a bit older than me. It’s serious. How do you feel about that?”
I shrugged.
“If you’re happy, then I’m happy for you.”
She pulled me into a hug, her eyes shining.
“Thank you for understanding. I’d like you to meet him.”
Soon after, she introduced us. Thomas made a good impression—polite, attentive, clearly adored Mum. They looked genuinely happy together. Before long, Mum was spending most nights at his place, then finally moved in with him.
With university applications looming, I enjoyed my newfound freedom in our two-bed flat—until one conversation turned everything upside down.
One evening, Mum arrived with a cryptic smile.
“I’ve got news…”
I guessed.
“Did Thomas propose?”
She nodded.
“He did. But there’s more—we’re expecting a baby.”
I was stunned.
“Mum, you’re over forty-five! That’s so risky! Are you sure about this?”
Her face darkened.
“We’ve thought it through, and it’s what we want. I know you’re worried, but this is our life.”
Blurting out my fear, I said,
“And if something goes wrong? Am I expected to step in while you and Thomas carry on?”
Mum went pale, her voice icy.
“I didn’t expect this from you. If you can’t support me, maybe you should go live with your dad. I’ll sell the flat and give you half.”
The next day, I tried to talk to her, but she wouldn’t budge.
“We’ve nothing left to say.”
A week later, I was back in my hometown, staying with Dad. He was calm about it, sharing my doubts over Mum’s choice but stressing it was her decision to make.
True to her word, Mum sold the flat, and within a month, my share of the money arrived. The note enclosed said only one line:
“Never thought you’d wish me ill.”
Two years have passed since. Mum’s blocked my number, and every attempt to reach her has failed. I don’t know if the pregnancy went smoothly, if the baby was born. Dad shows no interest in asking. This distance isn’t right—but I don’t know how to bridge it. Scared to turn up uninvited, terrified she’ll shut me out all over again.
