**Diary Entry**
I never thought I’d be a mother. But life had other plans.
I was chopping vegetables for dinner when a sharp knock rattled the front door. Standing there was a woman with a steely gaze and a frosty smile—Kate, Rowan’s ex-wife. Without waiting for an invitation, she stepped inside and announced bluntly, “We need to talk. Alone.”
Rowan frowned. “I have no secrets from my wife.”
Feeling out of place, I hesitated before offering, “I could pop out to the shops…”
“No need,” Rowan said firmly.
Kate sighed but relented. “Fine. Let her stay. This concerns her too.”
I perched on the edge of a chair, unease twisting into curiosity. I couldn’t have imagined what came next.
Kate spoke decisively, like someone who’d made up her mind long ago. “The twins are nine. I’ve done my share. Now it’s your turn. Starting tomorrow, they live with you.”
“What?” Rowan shot up. “Are you mad? Have you thought about how this will affect them?”
“I have,” Kate replied without a shred of guilt. “Then I remembered I’m human too. I’m done. School runs, clubs, homework—that’s your problem now. I’ll be the weekend mum.”
“They’re children, not luggage!” I murmured.
Kate scowled. “No one pitied *me*! This is how it is. Refuse, and I’ll take you to court, strip you of your rights. Understood?”
Then she was gone, leaving silence stretched tight as piano wire.
Rowan turned to me. “What do we do?”
I nodded slowly. “Take them. But we formalise it legally. Otherwise, she’ll change her mind in a month. Kids aren’t pawns.”
He exhaled heavily. “And you? Are you ready?”
“I’ve grown fond of them. You know I can’t have my own… Maybe this is my chance.”
I’d learned I was infertile at twenty. A friend convinced me to get checked—there was a discount at a private clinic. Back then, it felt like a formality.
But the doctor’s verdict was brutal: “Only a miracle…”
I didn’t give up. Visited three more specialists. The answer never changed. IVF wasn’t an option either—my diagnosis was too severe.
I went through it all—tears, despair, anger, acceptance. I even considered adoption but feared I couldn’t love a child not my own.
Every man I dated heard the truth early on. Some said they were fine with it—until they weren’t. By thirty, I was alone. And I wasn’t unhappy—I had my career, my travels, a full life.
Then came Rowan. Five years older, with twins from his first marriage. He knew about my diagnosis but wasn’t fazed—he already had kids.
He was kind, attentive. He loved me properly. I loved him back. We married. Life was peaceful. His children, Oliver and Lily, took to me—polite, bright-hearted little things. I was accepted.
Then Kate’s visit upended everything. The twins moved in.
The first months were chaos. I reshuffled the house, turned the spare room into theirs. Helped with homework, ran them to football and ballet, fretted like any mother would.
Lily grew especially close, sharing secrets, calling me “Mum.” Oliver was more reserved but respectful. And then it struck me—the miracle *had* happened.
A year later, Kate tried to take them back. “I’ve had my fun. They’re coming home,” she declared.
I stood my ground. “No. Their living arrangements are legal now. They’ve settled. Think of them, not yourself.”
She raged, manipulated. But the children spoke for themselves: “We’re staying. With Dad and Emily.”
That was the end of it.
Another year on, when calm had settled, Rowan squeezed my hand one evening. “You’re their real mum now. I’m so grateful.”
I clasped his fingers tight. “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.”
