**Diary Entry**
*Wednesday, 15th March*
“I didn’t want a son like this!” he 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.” As if his idea of fatherhood had somehow been ruined—and now, of course, it was my fault. Because while I was on maternity leave, I must’ve raised Oliver “all wrong.” Emily’s voice trembled as she stared blankly ahead, her hands shaking. But that tremor wasn’t just pain—it was fury.
Emily and James have been together for fourteen years. The early years were gruelling—doctors couldn’t figure out why she couldn’t conceive. She suffered through humiliating tests while he muttered poison in her ear: “Maybe you’re just defective. What’s a woman for, if not children?” He needled her, sneered, but she endured it. Because she loved him.
When Emily finally saw those two lines on the test, her heart nearly burst with joy. And when the ultrasound revealed, “It’s a boy,” James wept. He scooped her up, laughing like a child. Everything felt brighter, kinder. He doted on her—mopped floors, carried groceries, cooked meals. At night, he’d wake for Oliver, rocking him, whispering first words. In the park, pushing the pram, he stood taller, as if carrying a crown.
Oliver was his pride. James dreamed of football matches, ice hockey drills, camping trips, fishing by the lake. He’d already signed him up for youth football before he could walk, buying kits and toy cars—everything a “proper lad” should have. But Oliver barely glanced at them. He preferred picture books, jigsaw puzzles, and doodling with markers.
At five, James decided it was time to “make a man of him.” He dragged him to football. Oliver cried in the changing room, clinging to Emily, refusing to put on the kit. During training, he sat on the bench, bored, scuffing his trainers in the grass. James lost his temper—shouting, demanding he toughen up. When Emily argued that their son had different interests, he snapped: “This is what happens with mothering—you’ve ruined him.”
Then Oliver asked for violin lessons. On his own. He’d heard a street musician and fallen in love. Emily was thrilled—finally, something he truly wanted. But James refused. “You want him snivelling over Mozart? Turning into some weakling?” he growled.
When Oliver needed glasses, James exploded. “A bookworm! A milksop! I didn’t want a son like this!” That night, he muttered about IVF. “I want a real son. From scratch. Strong, athletic. I’ll raise him properly.”
Emily couldn’t believe her ears. She was past forty. She’d carried Oliver, given everything for him—and now she was to blame because he didn’t match James’s fantasy?
But the worst was yet to come.
She found out the truth last week: James had been having an affair. Six months ago, his mistress had a baby. A boy. Now the whispers around town: “Well, she wouldn’t give him another, so he sorted it himself.” As if betrayal, secret children—all of it—were just… understandable.
Emily wept for days. She gathered documents, found a solicitor—but hasn’t filed yet. James still lingers in the house, silent, eyes fixed on the floor. And Emily? She’s stopped hoping. She just wonders: How do you tell your son his father wants to replace him with a “better” version?
“I don’t know if I can forgive. But I’m his mother. I have to be strong. For Oliver. For myself. For the woman I was before all this,” she whispered, wiping a tear.
Sometimes love—the wrong kind—hurts worse than being alone.
**Lesson learned:** A man’s pride shouldn’t cost a child his worth.