**Diary Entry**
*”He’s not our child!” Emma said bitterly. But life had other plans.*
I stood by the stove, angrily stirring pasta in the pot. My eyes flashed with frustration, my voice trembled with suppressed anger.
“Jack, this can’t go on forever!” I burst out. “He’s not ours! Just think about how absurd this is!”
Jack sank onto the stool with a heavy sigh.
“I know, love… But what can we do? Throw him out? You know what Mum’s like…”
“And your mother—forgive me—is the one to blame for all this!” I cut him off sharply. “She’s the reason we’re in this mess!”
Jack just shook his head. He was at a loss. It all started when his sister, Alice, divorced her cheating husband. Margaret, their mum, had been the first to demand the split—said a husband like that was a disgrace. Alice, already pregnant, ended up alone, giving birth to little Oliver. His father never showed—not at the hospital, not after.
At first, Alice managed, but then suddenly, she “needed space.” Said she wanted to live her own life. Started dating again, and suddenly, Oliver was in the way. That’s when Margaret “parked” the boy with us—”just for two weeks,” she said. “He’s family! And you two don’t have kids yet, so it’s fine.”
But two weeks turned into three months. I was horrified. I worked from home, freelancing, so I was left alone with Oliver most days. Alice visited less and less—quick hugs, rushed kisses, then gone again. She had a new man now—some businessman from another city, too posh to bother with someone else’s child.
At first, I held it together. Oliver may not have been mine, but he was sweet, affectionate. I pitied him. He’d wait by the window for his mum, but she never stayed long.
One evening, exhausted, I sat at the kitchen table and whispered,
“Jack, he’s getting difficult… Today, he told me I wasn’t his mum and had no right to boss him around. But… Jack, I’m pregnant.”
His face went blank. “What?”
“Yes, Jack. We’ve waited so long… And now—I can’t do this alone. We’ll have our own child. I can’t keep carrying this weight.”
Two weeks later, when the test showed a single line, I sobbed. All for nothing. Meanwhile, Jack took Oliver back to his mother, who’d just retired. Margaret swore she could handle it.
But Oliver was at that age—old enough to know no one really wanted him. Margaret struggled. He started fights at school, his grades dropped. Then she came to me, pleading.
“Emma, love… he adores you. He’s only settled with you. Please, let him stay—just for a little while?”
“And Alice?”
“Alice?” She scoffed. “A mother in name only. She told me she regrets having Oliver. Her new husband won’t have him—they’re nearly divorced themselves…”
Clenching my jaw, I agreed. And Oliver came back. He smiled again, his grades improved. We chatted on walks to school, shared jokes, had our little secrets. One day, he hugged me tight and whispered,
“You’re my real mum. I love you. I want to stay with you and Uncle Jack forever.”
I broke down crying. I realised—I loved that boy as if he’d been mine all along.
Years passed. Alice divorced. Oliver stayed with us for good. We got custody, then adoption.
Then one evening, as I stood by the window, Oliver rushed over and pressed his ear to my belly.
“Mum, promise me I’ll have a little brother! I’ll protect him!”
I held my breath and smiled.
This time—double lines. Finally. And happiness. Real happiness.
