“I didn’t want a son like this!” my husband said, and in that moment, my world shattered.
He looked me straight in the eye and told me I’d given him the “wrong kind of son.” Said it wasn’t the fatherhood he’d imagined. And now, apparently, it’s all my fault. Because, you see, I was on maternity leave and “messing up” little Oliver’s upbringing, *sobbing* — Emma stares blankly at the wall, her voice cracking, hands trembling. But that trembling isn’t just hurt—it’s fury, too.
Emma and James have been together fourteen years. The early years were tough—doctors couldn’t figure out why she couldn’t get pregnant. She put herself through rounds of humiliating tests, while James muttered things like, “Maybe there’s just something wrong with you? What’s a woman for, if not kids?” He needled, he snipped, but she took it. Because she loved him.
When Emma finally saw two lines on that test, her heart nearly burst. And when the scan showed a little boy, James wept. He scooped her up, laughing like a kid. Everything felt brighter, warmer. He doted on her—mopped floors, carried groceries, made dinners. Stayed up nights rocking Oliver, teaching him his first words. Pushed the pram through the park like he was carrying something precious.
Oliver was his pride. James dreamed of football matches in the garden, teaching him to tackle, lads’ weekends fishing. He’d already signed him up for junior football training before he could even walk. Bought kits, toy cars, rugby balls—everything a “proper little lad” should want. But Oliver wasn’t fussed. He’d rather flip through picture books, build Lego, or doodle with felt tips.
By five, James decided it was time to “make a man of him.” Dragged him to football. Oliver cried before they even hit the changing rooms, clinging to Emma’s leg. At training, he’d slump on the bench, scuffing his trainers in the grass. James would lose it—shouting, demanding he toughen up. When Emma tried explaining Oliver had his own interests, James snapped that she’d “gone soft” on him, ruined him.
Then Oliver begged for piano lessons. He’d heard a busker playing in Covent Garden and was hooked. Emma was thrilled—finally, something he *loved*. But James refused. “You want him to be some weepy artsy type? A proper wimp?” he growled.
When Oliver needed glasses, James lost it completely. “Bookish little four-eyes! This isn’t the son I wanted!” he bellowed. That’s when he first mentioned IVF. “I want a proper son. A fresh start. Strong, athletic. *I’ll* raise him right.”
Emma couldn’t believe her ears. She was over forty. She’d carried Oliver, raised him, given up everything. And now she was being blamed because he didn’t match some fantasy.
But it got worse.
She found out James had been having an affair. For six months. And there was a baby—*another* son. Now everyone whispers, “Well, she didn’t want another, but he did. Can you blame him?” As if betrayal, a secret family—that’s just *fine*?
Emma cried for three days straight. Then she gathered paperwork, found a solicitor… but hasn’t filed yet. James hasn’t left. Just paces the flat, silent, eyes on the floor. And Emma? She’s done hoping. Only one question burns now: How do you tell your boy his dad wants to swap him out for a “better” version?
“I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive him. But I’m his mum. I have to be strong. For Oliver. For me. For the woman I was before all this,” she says quietly, wiping her cheek.
Sometimes love—the wrong kind—hurts worse than being alone.