When my ex and I separated, I decided to become a single mother using a sperm donor, so I was confident I knew where my son originated. However, upon returning to my hometown, the way my old friends looked at him made my stomach turn.
My divorce was still fresh when I made the decision to have a child. I didn’t want a husband or a boyfriend—just a little human of my own.
After my ex, Ethan, made it clear he didn’t want kids and asked for a separation, the path ahead seemed clear. I would still become a mother, even alone.
My friend Olivia sat on my sofa, watching me browse donor profiles. “You’re serious about this?” she asked. “You’re only 28.”
“And getting older by the day,” I replied, clicking on another profile. “Plus, the perfect donor might show up any moment now.”
“The perfect donor,” she scoffed. “As if choosing the father of your child is like shopping online.”
“Better than my dating history,” I sighed, closing my laptop and rubbing my tired eyes. “At least these guys are checked for genetic issues and criminal backgrounds. More than I can say about Ethan.”
“Good point,” Olivia nodded, handing me a soda. “But what about love? Don’t you want your kid to have a dad?”
“They’ll have me. That’s enough.”
I sipped my Coke, thinking about Ethan’s reaction when I mentioned children. He looked horrified, as if I’d suggested moving to Mars.
“Besides, many children grow up happily with just one parent,” I reminded myself.
The sperm bank’s website became my nightly routine. Tall, brown hair, a medical degree. I treated this search as if I were building my ideal man, except this one would only contribute DNA. No messy relationships, no disappointments, no Ethans—just a sterile gift of life in a cup.
My best friend Jude had supported me all along. He even helped me pack when I decided to move to a new state.
“Connecticut?” he asked, sealing a box, frowning. “That’s practically Canada.”
“It’s where my mom grew up. She liked it there, and maybe it would be nice. I’d have no family nearby, but I need a fresh start,” I explained, writing “Kitchen – Fragile” in bold on the box.
“Yeah, but…” he hesitated, fiddling with tape. “What if you need help? With the baby?”
“That’s what babysitters are for,” I said, nudging him. “Stop stressing.”
Jude was one of the best parts of my life. He suggested throwing my farewell party. Reliable and steady, unlike Olivia, who still had a wild streak. I loved her, too.
But in hindsight, I should have known better than to let her mix the drinks. Fortunately, as the night went from laughter to tears, Jude stayed close.
He made sure I didn’t fall into my farewell cake.
“I can’t believe you’re really leaving,” Olivia slurred, hugging me again. “Who’ll watch Netflix with me on Wednesdays?”
“FaceTime exists,” I told her, steadying myself on Jude’s counter. The room was spinning.
Later, Jude walked me to my door. His arm was around my waist, warm and secure.
What happened next still haunts my dreams.
The next week, I followed through with the insemination and left Atlanta behind.
Nine months later, Alan arrived crying — red-faced and perfect. His first cry hit me deep and unlocked a love I’d never felt before.
Eight years passed. Though tiring, I knew I was born to be a mother. My son grew into a smart, funny boy who asked too many questions and laughed at his own jokes.
Our life was simple and complete — just the two of us — until my mother became ill, and I had to return.
“We’re moving to Atlanta for a while,” I told Alan over pizza. His face was covered with sauce, as usual. “Remember where I grew up?”
He handled it better than expected, excited for the adventure. “Will I meet your old friends?”
“Of course, buddy,” I said, wiping his face. “And Grandma needs us.”
“Cool. Can I have your crust?”
I hadn’t planned to stay long—just enough to help my mother recover. But walking those familiar streets, something changed. Alan needed roots, a family. More than just me.
I hadn’t realized I’d left because of Ethan. Now that I was back, it struck me: I ran from my past, maybe it’s time to settle into my true home.
But then strange things started happening. Whispers began at the grocery store. Mrs. Henderson, who’d been working at the register for years, dropped her scanner when she saw Alan.
“Oh my,” she whispered, hand over her mouth. “Is this your…”
“My son, Alan,” I said, nudging him forward. “Say hi, sweetie.”
“Hi,” Alan mumbled, shy. “Your store has good popsicles.”
She stared at him like he’d grown a second head, and I saw others do the same.
Throughout the week, similar reactions appeared. Old classmates saw us and did double-takes, then hurried away whispering. Michael, my former lab partner, even tripped over his feet when we passed.
“Your friends are weird, Mom,” Alan commented after another strange encounter. “They look at me funny.”
“They’re just not used to new faces around here,” I said.
“Do I have something on my face?” he asked, self-conscious.
“No, sweetheart. You’re perfect just as you are.”
But the staring and gasping were irritating. Still, I ignored it as my mother needed more attention.
Then came the summer festival. Alan and I enjoyed cotton candy and grilled corn. I felt guilty because we’d moved to Atlanta at summer’s start, and he hadn’t made friends yet.
“Amelia?” a familiar voice called out. “Is that really you?”
Jude stood there. He looked a bit older but still had that crooked smile. A stylish woman holding his arm appeared, and I saw her wedding ring catching the sunlight.
Despite that, I focused on Jude. Time had been kind—only a few gray hairs, laugh lines, but still Jude.
“Jude, hi!” I said, trying to be casual, though my heart was pounding. “This is Eleanor. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
We exchanged greetings, but Jude’s eyes drifted to Alan, who was happily eating a corn dog.
“This is Alan,” I said, more relaxed. “My son.”
Eleanor smiled warmly but frowned. Jude looked like he’d seen a ghost. That’s when I realized Alan’s wild brown curls, his nose crinkling when he laughed, even his stance—he looked just like Jude at his age.
Why hadn’t I seen it before?
“How old is he?” Jude asked, voice trembling.
“Eight,” I whispered, still stunned. I knew he knew—after all, I had the procedure done here just before leaving. It was after Olivia’s drunken goodbyes.
“Mom, can I get another corn dog?” Alan tugged my sleeve, oblivious. “Please? I’ll eat my vegetables tonight.”
“Sure, honey.”
Eleanor stepped away for drinks, squeezing Jude’s arm before she went.
“We need to talk,” Jude said softly, still staring at Alan like he wanted to memorize every feature.
“Yeah,” I agreed, watching my son run full speed to the snack stand. His hair bouncing, Jude’s curls blending in the breeze. “We definitely do.”
“Does he…” Jude hesitated. “Have you told him about his father?”
“He thinks he was conceived from a donor,” I replied, shaking my head. That’s what I believed, too. “I never imagined… the timing…”
“The party,” Jude said, running a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“I swear I didn’t know. I went through with it right after that. When he was born, I assumed… and I was so busy settling in and being a mom. That’s why everyone’s been staring at him weird.”
Alan’s laughter rang out across the festival. I smiled.
Jude and I quickly agreed on one thing: get a test to confirm. We’d figure everything out after the results came back.
The results would arrive in two weeks. If paternity was confirmed, Jude wanted to be involved. Maybe it was for the best.
Jude was the responsible, caring guy always there. Of course, he’d want to be a father. I wasn’t sure how his wife felt about it.
