She said she could never be a mother. But life had other plans.
Emma was chopping vegetables for supper when a sharp knock rapped at the door. On the doorstep stood a woman with a steely gaze and a frosty smile. It was Eleanor—the former wife of William. Without waiting for an invitation, she stepped inside and declared plainly:
“We need to talk. Alone.”
William frowned.
“I have no secrets from my wife.”
Emma, feeling out of place, hesitantly offered,
“I could pop down to the shops…”
“No need,” William said firmly.
Eleanor sighed but relented.
“Fine. Let her stay. It concerns her too.”
Emma perched on the edge of a chair. Her apprehension faded into uneasy curiosity. She couldn’t have imagined what was coming next.
Eleanor spoke with the confidence of someone who had long since made up her mind.
“The twins are nine now. I’ve carried them half the time. Now it’s your turn. Starting tomorrow, they live with you.”
“What?” William shot to his feet. “Have you lost your mind? Do you even care how this will affect them?”
“I’ve thought about it,” Eleanor replied without a shred of remorse. “Then I remembered I’m human too. I’ve had enough. School, clubs, homework—that’s your lookout now. I’ll be the weekend mum.”
“They’re children, not baggage,” Emma said softly.
Eleanor’s temper flared.
“No one ever pitied me! I’ve said my piece. Refuse, and I’ll take you to court. Lose your rights. Understood?”
She left, the silence in the flat stretched taut as a bowstring.
“What do we do?” William turned to Emma.
She nodded slowly.
“Bring them here. But we formalise it properly—through the courts. Otherwise, she’ll change her mind again in a month. The children can’t be tossed about like that. They’re not playthings.”
William exhaled heavily.
“And you? Are you ready?”
“I already get on with them. You know I can’t have my own. Maybe this is my chance…”
Emma had learned of her infertility at twenty. A friend had persuaded her to get tested—there’d been a discount at a private clinic. At the time, it had seemed like a formality.
But the doctor’s verdict was cruel: “Only a miracle could…”
Emma refused to accept it. She visited three more clinics. The answer was the same. IVF wasn’t an option—her condition was too severe.
She weathered it all—tears, despair, rage, acceptance. She’d even considered adoption but feared she’d never love a child not her own.
Every man she dated, she told honestly. Some accepted at first, then withdrew. By thirty, she was alone. Yet she didn’t suffer—she worked, travelled, lived fully.
Then came William. Five years older, with twins from his first marriage. He knew about her condition but wasn’t afraid—he already had children.
He was tender, attentive. He loved her truly. She loved him too. They married. Life was calm. His children took to her—well-behaved, bright, cheerful. They accepted her.
Then—Eleanor’s visit. Everything turned on its head. The children moved in.
At first, it was hard. Emma rearranged the house, converted the spare room into a nursery. Helped with schoolwork, ferried them to clubs, fretted over them as her own.
Sophie grew especially close, sharing secrets, calling her “Mum.” James was more reserved but respectful. And then Emma realised—the miracle had happened after all.
A year later, Eleanor wanted them back.
“Enough. I’ve had my time. The children are coming home,” she announced.
Emma stood firm.
“No. Their home is settled legally. They’ve only just adjusted. Think of them, not yourself.”
Eleanor raged, tried to manipulate. But the children spoke for themselves.
“We’re staying here. With Dad and Emma.”
There were no more arguments.
Another year passed, the house settled into its rhythm. One evening, William said quietly,
“You’ve become their real mother. I’m grateful for that.”
Emma squeezed his hand.
“Once, a doctor told me I’d only be a mother if a miracle happened. It did. I love them as my own. And I’ll never let them go.”
