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Baby Lovers, Los Angeles, CA (2026)

04/01/2026

The rain poured down in sheets the evening I stepped through the door of the animal shelter on the edge of Milton Keynes. My name is Edward, and I’m a man of few words; I speak quietly, but I make myself clear. When the young woman at the desk asked what I was looking for, I told her straight away: I wanted their most difficult dog—the one nobody wanted, the one everyone had given up on.

Her name was Charlotte, and she looked rather taken aback by my request. She tried to talk me out of it, but I stood my ground. A few minutes later, Charlotte led in a large, battered-looking Alsatian.

One ear was badly scarred, and his eyes were vacant and cold—as if something inside him had long since withered away. He didn’t bark or growl; he just watched. For a moment, I recognised that pain in his eyes as something all too familiar. His name was Shadow—a name that suited him far too well.

Shadow had spent three years in a concrete kennel. They’d tried to rehome him several times, but every attempt ended in disaster. On the last occasion, someone was hurt.

Shadow was labeled dangerous and written off for good. I quietly signed the paperwork. Charlotte, her voice trembling, asked if I realised the risk I was taking…
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04/01/2026

When others said they couldn’t get along with their husband’s family, I never believed it. Things were always fine with his parents, but that might be because, right after our wedding, we moved about 125 miles away.

I barely had time to get to know my new “mum-in-law”. After our wedding, we stayed in their flat for a week and everything went smoothly. Then we moved, as my husband serves in the army.

We lived there for a decade. Then, out of the blue, my husband was transferred back to his family’s local area. That wasn’t the best news for me. I had settled in nicely, we had a lovely flat, and I was expecting our third child. But, some things you just can’t change.

I gave birth in our hometown. A year later, I found myself pregnant again. It wasn’t planned, and I didn’t feel ready, but we’d always envisioned a big family, so we didn’t dwell on it. During my pregnancy, my “mother-in-law” was around, supposedly to “help”. Occasionally, she'd pop in for a visit, but instead of actually helping out, she’d just sit with her tea and offer an endless stream of advice.

I didn’t pay much attention to her comments about cleaning and chores. But when she began to weigh in on child-rearing, I boiled over. It felt odd being told what to do by a woman who barely knows me, hadn’t seen me in ten years, and only recognises her grandchildren from photos.

Later, when I was eight months pregnant, she said, “I can tell you’re going to have a girl!”

We wanted a little girl, since we already had three boys. So I asked with a smile, “Why do you think that?” “You’ve aged, you’re all swollen, your face is puffy. The girl is taking all your beauty away.” “Well, thank you… but I always get bloated in each pregnancy.”

“Not every pregnancy.” “What makes you say that? You’ve only seen me pregnant in pictures.” “Don’t argue with me. When I had my son, everyone said I was glowing, I looked radiant. You look frightening, honestly. Swollen like you’re filled with water. Even your slippers don’t fit your feet anymore.”

I didn’t respond. I didn’t tell her that what made me look tired wasn’t the baby’s gender, but the fact I’m 39. She had my husband at 19—at that age, anyone is in their prime. She’s told me I look unattractive plenty of times. My husband finally put a stop to her remarks. And, funnily enough, we ended up with another son…After the baby arrived—a healthy, sweet girl—I felt a new serenity blossom inside me. My mother-in-law insisted on visiting almost immediately, wielding her usual blend of fussing and unsolicited advice. But something had changed. I didn’t feel angry anymore. I listened, nodded, and chose what to take to heart.

One afternoon, she paused mid-sentence and watched me cradle my daughter. For once, her tone softened. “She’s beautiful,” she said quietly, almost surprised. “And so are you.”

In that moment, her words felt genuine. Maybe age had changed us both; maybe motherhood had, too. I saw her not as an adversary, but as another woman who had been overwhelmed, and loved fiercely in her own way.

I still roll my…
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04/01/2026

Before Alice departed from this world, for a long while we lived together in her parents’ house. Our eldest was raised by her grandparents. My relationship with Alice’s mum and dad was always warm, and I’d thought they trusted me completely.

When we learned Alice was expecting her second child, my father-in-law took out a loan to help us buy a flat. It started as a one-bedroom, but by the time the baby was due, we’d managed to swap it for a two-bedroom. Since Alice’s parents put in most of the money, we registered the flat in my father-in-law’s name, as he handled all the paperwork and arrangements. We’d planned to transfer it to Alice after the birth, but fate intervened and she never made it past labour. I was left alone, suddenly responsible for two children.

For many months, Alice’s parents wore the shroud of mourning, and it was chiefly my own dad and mum who helped me through. I worried her mum and dad might turn against me, or the newborn, but they didn’t. It took them some time to recover, but eventually they became actively involved in our lives and those of their grandchildren. I’m immensely grateful for everything they did. There was, however, one sticking point—my father-in-law refused to discuss the flat.

I brought it up nearly a year later and was met with a dismissive snort. Apparently, not enough time had passed and, even though I had two children and nowhere legal to call home, no one seemed bothered. He insisted he trusted me, loved his grandchildren dearly, and that they were the most precious thing he possessed now, but he wouldn’t sign over the flat.

It all feels a bit unfair, since I’d invested some of my own money as well. I’m frightened to quarrel with Alice’s family—they could easily throw us out, and I’d have no way to prove anything…But as weeks slipped into months and the children grew, my priorities shifted. Possessions and paperwork seemed trivial next to bedtime giggles, scraped knees, and the quiet moments when my youngest curled up against my shoulder. I learned to cherish the love and support that had somehow survived loss—a patchwork family bound by grief, by duty, and by the small joys of everyday life.

One spring evening, after the children had fallen asleep and the house was quiet, my father-in-law knocked gently at the door. We sat together in the living room, old photographs scattered across the table. Wordlessly, he slid an envelope toward me—inside, documents transferring the flat to my name. “Alice would have wanted it like this,” he murmured. I felt the weight of everything loosen just a little. He squeezed my hand, …
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04/01/2026

The day before her daughter’s A-levels, Mary swung open her wardrobe, on the desperate hunt for a dress—there wasn’t a single thing in there that didn’t scream “bored teacher at a PTA meeting.” Out of nowhere, her daughter strode into the room.

"Mum, try not to take this the wrong way, but… I don’t want you at my A-level exams tomorrow," she declared, as serious as parliament in the middle of a Brexit debate. Mary parked herself on the edge of the bed, bemused and devastated all at once. She couldn’t quite make sense of it. Her husband hadn’t exactly been making life a garden party either; these days he’d point out that she looked worn-out and past her prime. The daughter was firmly in her father’s camp—only he could be bothered to show up to the parents’ evenings. Mary made up her mind then and there—she’d have a heart-to-heart with her husband that evening, and bring up their daughter’s latest act.

Mary and Alex had fallen in love in their teens. They married faster than you could boil an egg.

There wasn’t two pennies to rub together for a proper wedding. Mary’s mum got by on barely more than her pension and the discount aisle at Sainsbury’s. Alex had the pleasure of being one of many children in a farming family from the West Country. Mary made a noble sacrifice for her family, leaving her degree behind to start work, just so Alex could have a crack at university. She did try broaching the subject of returning to her studies, but Alex gently insisted:

“Let’s give it another year, love. I need to find proper work, and then we’ll make sure you get your turn." That “year” stretched into forever. Before Mary knew it, she was up to her ears in mortgage repayments, shift work, household chaos, and the kind of nappies no one wants to remember. And so life trundled on. These days, Alex was some sort of high-flyer, strutting around with his own business. Mary waited up for him that night, determined to put her foot down.

"What’s really going on? Why are you and our daughter suddenly so ashamed of me?" she asked, her eyes mistier than the Lake District.

“Mary, it’s been coming for a while. The spark from our uni days fizzled out years ago. We’ve grown up, and we’re simply not the same people anymore. I’m—well, I’m embarrassed by you. We need to go our separate ways." Just like that.

Their daughter walked out with her dad, refusing to answer her mum’s texts, adamant she wanted nothing to do with her. Alex traded Mary in for a younger model in record time. Their daughter busied herself sculpting a brand-new image—new hair,…
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04/01/2026

It was an ordinary day at work, the kind where boredom settles in and time stretches endlessly. I wasn’t shirking my duties; the computer system had crashed, leaving everyone stranded and unable to accomplish anything. We were just waiting on the IT team, restless and idle.

Suddenly, the phone rang. I picked up the receiver and heard a strained voice, trembling with age and desperation:

"Hello, love, it's your mum. Please come, I've fallen. Help me."

The voice was unfamiliar, but the earnestness in her tone was impossible to ignore—a frail woman in real distress. Instead of hanging up, I stayed on the line, determined to find out more.

"What happened? How can I help you? What's your address?"

Initially, the woman sounded startled, realising she'd dialed the wrong number. But despair got the better of her, and she gave me her address anyway. It was remarkably close to my office. I asked what had happened. She explained that while dusting a cabinet, her stool had broken, causing her to fall and badly injure her leg.

I quickly let my manager know I was stepping out for a bit, and raced to help her, dialling 999 as I hurried along. When I arrived, the front door was ajar. I stepped inside and found her sprawled on the floor, propped up on her elbows, her knee awkwardly twisted—a clear injury even to my medically untrained eyes. All I could think was to apply a cold compress.

The agony she was in was palpable. She whimpered, tears streaming down her face. My heart clenched—I wrapped my arms around her and comforted her, whispering gentle reassurances, all the while waiting for the paramedics. Once they arrived and began tending to her, I called her daughter and told her which hospital her mother would be taken to. I promised to lock up the house and drop the keys through the letterbox.

Back at work, her plight haunted me—all I could think of was how she was doing. The next day, I went to see her at the hospital. She was alright, grateful and welcoming, inviting me over to tea once she was out. Soon enough, she…
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04/01/2026

The first few miles unfurled in a heavy silence. Only the rhythmic swish of the wipers and the steady drumming of rain on steel filled the confines of the car. Harriet glanced sideways at the elderly man. His coat was drenched, his faded scarf hung awkwardly off his shoulder, and his hands quivered from cold. Still, there was no trace of irritation or complaint on his face—instead, there was a particular calm, the quiet of someone who had endured more than he ever let on.

“Is your house far?” she asked, eager to break the gloom.

“In Hawkstead, right at the edge of the village,” he replied, his voice a gentle rumble. “It’s an old place, but it’s mine. I live alone now. My wife passed away years back. The children are off in Manchester and Brighton.”

His tone was level, quiet, ringing with the self-sufficiency of someone long accustomed to fending for himself.

“So why on earth were you walking in this downpour?” she pressed gently.

A slight smile creased his weathered mouth. “Went for my medicine. Blood pressure, heart… you know how it goes. The years weigh down.”

Harriet nodded with a slow understanding. She knew all too well—her mother suffered the same.

“Thank you for stopping,” he said after another long stretch. “You’ve no idea how much you’ve helped. I’d started thinking I’d be stranded till dark.”

“It’s nothing,” she said, though they both knew it was not. She wouldn’t have left her own father on the roadside—how could she leave a stranger?

He watched her closely, as if searching for something buried behind her words.

“It’s been a hard day, hasn’t it?” he said softly.

Harriet let out a bitter little laugh.

“One of the hardest.”

And before she knew how it happened, she spilled everything.

Everything:

the humiliation,

the endless “complicated circumstances,”

the feeling of becoming invisible at forty-nine,

the crowded bus, the ancient Peugeot, the mounting debts, the unyielding exhaustion, and the sense that you give all your life, and not a single soul notices.

The old man listened, quietly, never interrupting, not even once. When she finished, he simply said:

“You’re an honest soul, Harriet. And there aren’t many of those left these days.”

Her throat tightened. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said words like that to her.

By the time they reached Hawkstead, the streetlights cast broken patterns of light across the wet tarmac. He…
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04/01/2026

We moved, my wife and I, to a quaint little English town, the sort of place where everyone knows your business and the bells in the church tower mark every passing hour. We had three children then, and life seemed rather well-settled. Our eldest, Thomas, was five. Henry, the middle one, was three, and baby Edward was only eighteen months.

Now, there is one day from those times I remember most vividly, a day that changed me to my core. Until then, I firmly believed that working down the local coal mine was the toughest job a man could endure. Each evening I would come home, drop my boots by the door, and collapse onto the settee, thinking I’d done my part. One evening, I’d barely laid down when my wife handed me our nine-month-old.

“Frank, here, take Edward for a bit, will you? My arms are dropping off! He’s so heavy today!”

I groaned, “You must be joking. You’ve been at home all day, and now you ask for help? I’ve not long come out of the pit.”

She didn’t argue, just slipped quietly into the kitchen. It never struck me as odd then.

Only six months later, a family tragedy struck. A close relative of my wife’s passed away, and the funeral was in Wi******er. Julia, my wife, had been raised by this lady—she had no choice but to go. We agreed it made most sense for Julia to travel, while I took time off from the mines to keep the children.

So, there I was, left with the three boys. Odd as it sounds, I was almost excited to have three full days away from work. The children and I lounged in bed until midday, before eating some soup Julia had made the day before. After dinner, I tried napping for an hour, tempting as a slow afternoon sounded.

No such luck. Henry managed to nod off, but Thomas and Edward didn’t let me have a moment’s peace. Thankfully, they all crashed quickly that night, though there hadn’t been time for the walk Julia had insisted on. All seemed fine.

Morning, however, was a disaster. I managed to serve sandwiches to the older two, but Edward needed his porridge with milk. I tried to make it by guesswork—ruined it, of course, all burnt at the bottom of the pot. Refusing to eat, my youngest protested until I warmed some milk and gave him a roll. That would have to do.

Getting them all ready for a walk was something else. Thomas dressed himself, I wrestled Henry into his jumper, but Edward squirmed like a wet eel. The moment I’d tugged Edward’s tights on, Henry announced he needed the loo.

“Couldn’t you have gone before?”

“I didn’t need to go before.”

While I sorted one, the other cried out, “I’m all sweaty!” And so it was, chaos from start to finish.

Outdoors, I questioned why walks needed to be daily. Would once a month not suffice? I prayed this would be our last foray.

Upon returning, I was faced with a mountain of coats, wellies, hats, and gloves. Feeding them still loomed over me. Making more porridge was out of the question, so I opted for mashed potatoes. While I peeled spuds, the boys whirled around me—shouting, whining, crying. When they’d eaten, I was already worrying about what I’d need to cook next.

I put some broth on the stove and lay down for a moment, before being startled awake by the dreadful smell of burning. The broth had boiled over, scorching the whole hob.

After lunch, I surveyed the house—it looked like a barn at lambing season. Still, I gathered the boys, washed them all, changed them, and popped them into their beds. Thomas and Henry fell asleep quickly.

But then—disaster! We’d lost Edward’s dummy. If you know the panic of losing a beloved dummy before bedtime, you know it’s like the sky falling in. I would have traded anything to find it. Edward wailed non-stop; sleep wasn’t an option without it.

Desperation drove me—in my pyjamas—to knock next door, and the clock was nearly at midnight.

“What’s happened, Frank?” asked dear Mrs. Thompson.

“Please, help! I need a dummy. Edward won’t sleep without one—he’s beside himself!”

“We’ve only the one, and it’s well-used.”

“I’ll take anything. Please.”

I dashed back—Thomas, Henry, and Edward all howling in distress at my absence. I scrubbed the dummy, gave it to Edward, and finally, blessed silence. I sat and surveyed the mess, hands over my head, and looked up through tear-brimmed eyes.

“God above, forgive me. I promise, I’ll …
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04/01/2026

I was sixteen when my parents startled me with the news that they were expecting another child. My father spoke to me as if I were still a child myself, explaining that I would soon have a little brother or sister and that they would need my help around the house. I had grown quite comfortable as an only child. My thoughts immediately drifted to my plans for university, and I knew well enough that a new baby would mean money spent on nappies and all sorts of things—money that otherwise might have gone towards my education. It seemed clear to me then that no one would be able to cover my university expenses.

I was an impulsive teenager and, in my frustration, I wounded my parents deeply by asking why two people their age would want another baby. Why would they choose to overturn my life at such an important time for me?

There was a bitter argument, after which I shut myself away in my room, overhearing my father comforting my mother as she wept. Yet, at that moment, I felt no sympathy for her.

As time passed, my brother was born and I soon adored him. And despite my fears, I did make it to university. Still, I never felt it important enough to apologise to my parents for the scene I had caused or the harshness of my words.

Years later, I became a grown man with a wife and a daughter of my own. For a long time, our daughter Lily remained an only child as well, since my wife was hesitant about having another. Then, when the moment came to tell Lily that she would not be growing up alone after all, I felt a nervousness that reminded me of my own youth. Thankfully, she was still quite young—she was just eleven—and her reaction could not have been more different to mine.

“Oh, hooray! So I’ll have a brother or a sister?” she exclaimed as she threw herself into my arms, then dashed off to hug her mother. “At last!”

Her cries of happiness washed over me like a cold shower, making me realise how bracing the experience was. For a brief moment, I stood exactly where my father had all those years ago, and received the kind of response I had always secretly hoped for. I…
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04/01/2026

So, the other day, David got home a lot earlier than usual—it was only half twelve. He walked through the front door and just stared in confusion while his wife was hurriedly dressing their sleepy little daughter. Meanwhile, their son was just quietly standing by the door.

“Where are you off to at this hour? And why are you taking the kids?” he asked.

“I’ve decided to leave you, David. I can’t do this anymore,” Sarah said, looking him in the eye, thinking back to how much she used to love him.

“If that’s what you want, then go! You made your choice, so get out!” David shouted, completely ignoring the fact that his yelling was frightening the children. “No one will want you with two kids. Idiot!”

“We’ll see about that,” she replied, and walked out the door.

The first year of their marriage, Sarah felt like she was living a dream. She was just glowing with happiness, completely smitten with her handsome, successful husband, who used to treat her like a queen.

“My darling, you’ll probably end up suffering with such a good-looking man,” her mum would sometimes say, but Sarah always brushed it off and insisted that nothing could break them apart, because their love was so strong.

Then, one day, her whole world came crashing down—Sarah found out that David was having an affair. After their son was born, new problems crept in, and the pain just wouldn’t leave her. Eventually, it seemed like David had come to his senses; their house was calm again and things seemed all right, apart from the fact that he was away on business trips quite a lot. Sarah comforted herself, telling herself that because of his work, they never had to worry about money and lived comfortably.

But after their daughter was born, those business trips became longer and more frequent. There was no point asking David anything, because his only response was always that she should focus on the kids and stop filling her head with rubbish.

Deep down, Sarah suspected he was still seeing someone else. She did her best not to dwell on it, knowing there wasn’t much she could do about it, and telling herself that leaving him with two children would be absolutely mad. She kept quiet, even when she caught the scent of someone else’s perfume on his clothes, or heard him whispering into the phone in another room. But, of course, there’s always a breaking point.

Their little flat and her meagre salary—she was just glad to have a job, since she had no experience whatsoever—became their reality. Sarah was running on autopilot, because she simply had to. Most days, she barely had enough energy for her son and daughter; she’d given up on herself ages ago. So when someone suddenly placed a beautiful bouquet on her till at the supermarket, she was honestly taken aback.

“These are for you! I just really want to see you smile. Maybe these flowers will cheer you up, even if it’s just a bit,” said a man—he looked to be about thirty-five—clearly a little nervous.

He was one of their regulars. Always bought the same things: sausages, brown sauce, coffee, a loaf, and a pack of pasties.

“I’m Robert! Your shift’s almost up, let me walk you home,” he offered.

It took ages for Sarah to warm up to Robert’s interest; she just couldn’t believe any man would be serious about a woman with two children. She knew that even their own father didn’t want them—he hadn’t rung once in over a year. Eventually, her nerves snapped and she blurted out:

“You know I’ve got two kids!”

“That’s perfect. I was actually planning a trip to the zoo this weekend,” he replied, smiling.

Sarah was baffled—she couldn’t get her head around the idea that a stranger would want to play with her children. Robert was the one who taught her son how to play draughts, and got her daughter up on skis for the first time. He was the one up in the middle of the night, popping down to the chemist when one of the children had a fever. At one point, Sarah thought maybe she should end it, but he just looked at her and said, “Do you honestly think I’d let go of the best thing that ever happened to me? Will you marry me?”

Sarah’s been Robert’s wife for over five years now. They’ve had two more children, and all the neighbours joke about how much the kids look like their dad.

“You know, they’re all really starting to look like you! Maybe it’s because you love them so much,” she laughs.

“Of course, darling, I love them with all my heart—because they’re a part of you.”Sarah smiled, resting her head on Robert’s shoulder as…
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04/01/2026

So, for over fifteen years, I’ve worked at this factory with a bloke called Richard. We’re not especially close—just the sort to share a cuppa during lunch and chat about life’s odd bits. You know how it goes: even if you’re not best mates, work has a way of making people spill their secrets. That’s how I found out Richard raised his son, Jamie, all on his own after his wife left him. The lad wasn’t even five when she walked out, and Richard just rolled up his sleeves and got on with it.

He’s never been a strict or overbearing chap. Richard always wanted Jamie to do well for himself—to get his head down in school and land some comfortable office job, not end up slogging it out on the shop floor like us. Over all those years, I’d hear bits and bobs about Jamie being dead smart, especially with maths and science, and that he was hoping to get into a good uni somewhere like Manchester or Durham. Richard, bless him, picked up extra shifts and worked doubles, scraping together every last pound in case Jamie couldn’t grab a spot at a state uni and needed help with tuition fees.

But then, right before finishing up at sixth form, Jamie suddenly did a complete U-turn. Out of nowhere, he tells his dad he’s skipping uni and wants to join the Army after his A-levels. Apparently, his girlfriend Emily has this idea that a proper man should serve his country, and the sooner the better. Get this—Jamie brings Emily home to meet Richard, all proud and keen to show off how pretty she is. But honestly, the girl comes from a bit of a dodgy background.

Richard doesn’t say much, but he goes along with things when Jamie suggests Emily move in with them for a bit. At first, she was sleeping on the old sofa in the lounge, but soon enough, she was in Jamie’s room and clearly started pulling the strings. It wasn’t long before she started floating this idea that the money Richard had put aside for Jamie’s uni might be better spent on sending her to college instead.

Her dream, so she says, is to become a nurse, but she couldn’t get enough grades for a spot at any state college. Richard wasn’t keen, but in the end, he handed over the money, sent Jamie off to the Army, and hoped it would all sort itself out.

Well, no sooner had Emily got her hands on the cash and Jamie had left for basic training, she started working on Richard even harder. She floated the notion they should sell his flat and buy two single-bed flats, so when Jamie finished his service, he and Emily would have their own place.

Can you believe the nerve? She turned up at his place with…
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