Dear Diary,
I arrived at the hospital alone – Poppy Holloway, with no one to hold my hand through the labour. My husband Jack had left me a few months earlier, as soon as I told him I was pregnant.
The birth took hours, but at last my newborn son’s first cries filled the room. He was healthy and utterly perfect.
Dr Edward Hartley lifted him gently, ready to pass him to me, then stopped. His hands trembled. He looked at the baby’s face, then at mine, and his eyes welled up.
‘Doctor, is everything all right?’ I asked.
He nodded, unable to speak at first. When he did, his voice cracked, and the words froze me.
He had noticed a small birthmark on my baby’s arm. It was exactly the same as the one his own son used to have – a son he had lost all contact with years ago. His heart seemed to sink.
I followed his gaze, anxious, and asked what was happening. He took a deep breath, tears still on his cheeks, and said the mark matched his son’s. That meant my baby was his grandson.
The world tilted. The loneliness I had carried through the labour vanished, replaced by a deep, overwhelming emotion. I pulled my son close and held him tightly. Dr Hartley stood, overcome, realising that this little boy had just restored a bond he thought was gone forever.
I still feel the shock and the wonder. I went into that ward without a family, but I’m walking out with one.
