Born Unwanted

 “My mother rejected me from the day I was born. It wasn’t something she said outright; it was in her every action, or lack of one.”

Dear Reader,

It’s either generational wealth or generational trauma or both.

Have you ever thought of it?

We’re a mirror of our parents. What they used to do and the environment we grew up in.

Though fictional, today‘s story tells the story of several children who grew up in such homes.

It is a story of looking for love and finding it, a case of creating love yourself but still feeling empty.

Will Lucas be able to find the love he desperately yearns for?

Find out as you read!

Chapter 1:

My mother rejected me from the day I was born. It wasn’t something she said outright; it was in her every action, or lack of one.

She hid from me in her whiskey glass, in her endless nights out, in the way she avoided even looking at me. I don’t think she was capable of love, not for me or anyone else.

I was a good kid. Quiet. I stayed out of her way, hoping that maybe, one day, she’d notice me. 

But nothing I did was ever enough. If I brought home good grades, she barely glanced at them. 

If I did something wrong, the punishment was cold silence, not discipline.

She was beautiful, though. Long, dark hair that smelled faintly of jasmine, and deep brown eyes that seemed to hold secrets. 

But those eyes were broken, shattered in ways I couldn’t understand as a child. She never looked at me like a mother should look at her son. There was no warmth, no pride. Just emptiness.

My father wasn’t much better. He wasn’t cruel, not like her, but he wasn’t there either. 

He lived in his own world, always chasing something I couldn’t see. He never noticed the small boy in the corner, watching him, hoping for a scrap of attention.

I learned early on to fend for myself. When my friends brought sandwiches made with love to school, I ate mayonnaise on bread. 

I told myself it was fine, that I didn’t need what they had, but deep down, I envied every bite they took.

One Christmas, I tried. I really tried. I saved up for weeks, mowing lawns in the bitter cold to buy my mother a gift, a new hairbrush. 

Her old one was missing bristles, and I thought maybe, just maybe, she’d appreciate the gesture.

On Christmas morning, I handed it to her, my hands shaking with anticipation. She looked at the box, then at me.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“It’s a gift,” I said, my voice trembling. “For you.”

She opened it, pulled out the brush, and stared at it for a moment. Then she handed it back to me.

“I don’t need anything from you,” she said, her tone flat.

Something broke in me that day. I didn’t cry, not then. But later, alone in my room, the tears came. It wasn’t just the rejection of the gift, it was the rejection of me.

From that day on, I stopped trying. I went through the motions, pretending not to care, but inside, the longing never left. 

I wanted someone to see me, to love me, to want me. But no one ever did.

The summer I turned ten, everything changed. My best friend Ethan brought a stack of magazines to the baseball field one lazy afternoon. 

We’d been playing for hours, our hands sticky with sweat and sunflower seeds, when he pulled them out of his bag.

“Check this out,” he whispered, laying them out on the grass.

I froze. On the glossy pages were women, beautiful and bare, staring back at me with eyes that seemed to hold the answers to every question I’d ever asked. 

They didn’t look broken like my mother. They looked… inviting.

For the first time in my life, I felt wanted. Those women, with their soft smiles and perfect curves, were looking at me. They weren’t rejecting me. 

They were offering something I couldn’t name but desperately needed.

Part of me wanted to run. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be looking at those images. But another part of me, the part that had been starving for years, stayed. I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

I went home that night with a strange mix of shame and curiosity swirling in my chest. 

I didn’t know it then, but that moment would shape me in ways I couldn’t imagine. Those magazines became my escape. 

Whenever the loneliness got too loud, I turned to those pages, to the women who never turned away.

Years passed, and the magazines turned into screens. The women became more accessible, more perfect, more unattainable. 

They were always there, waiting for me, looking for me. And I let myself believe the lie that they wanted me, even as shame whispered in my ear that it wasn’t real.

It was in the middle of this haze that I met Ivy. I was sitting in a crowded café, pretending to work, when she appeared. 

She was looking for a seat, her sapphire-blue eyes scanning the room.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked, her voice cutting through the noise in my head.

I looked up, startled. She was beautiful in a way that wasn’t just physical. Her presence filled the space around her, warm and inviting.

“No,” I stammered, scrambling to clear the chair.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling as she sat down.

I should have gone back to my work, but I couldn’t stop glancing at her. She wasn’t like the women on the screens. She was real, tangible, and she was right there.

Over the next few weeks, I found myself returning to that café, hoping to see her again. And when she did appear, it was as if the universe had heard my silent plea.

We started talking, first about small things, then about everything. 

She listened in a way no one ever had, her eyes meeting mine without flinching. For the first time, I felt seen, truly seen.

I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the way, I stopped needing the screens. 

Ivy became my world, the answer to the question I’d been asking since the day I was born.

Now, as I sit by her side, waiting for the birth of our child, I can’t help but think about how far I’ve come. 

From a lonely boy looking for someone, to a man about to become a father.

And when our son is born, I’ll make sure he knows, every single day, that he was wanted. 

That he was born into arms that were already searching for him.

Chapter 2:

Ivy and I grew closer with every passing day. 

The connection between us wasn’t just about words or shared experiences, it was something deeper, something that made my chest ache when she wasn’t near.

The first time we kissed, it wasn’t rushed or frenzied. It was gentle, like a brushstroke on canvas, her lips soft and warm against mine. 

But even in that gentleness, there was an urgency, a need that I hadn’t realized existed in both of us.

I remember how her fingers tangled in my hair, how her breath hitched when I pulled her closer. 

The world outside the café faded into nothingness. It was just us, cocooned in a moment that felt both infinite and fleeting.

That night, she invited me to her apartment, a cozy space filled with books and plants that mirrored her personality, thoughtful, nurturing, alive.

As we stepped inside, the tension between us grew thicker. 

She turned to me, her sapphire eyes catching the dim light of the room. “Stay,” she whispered, her voice trembling ever so slightly.

“Ivy…” I hesitated, not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t want to ruin what we had.

But she silenced my doubts with a kiss, her hands slipping beneath my jacket, tugging me closer. “Don’t think,” she murmured against my lips. “Just be here with me.”

Her bedroom was lit by the soft glow of a lamp on the nightstand, casting warm shadows that danced on the walls. 

She guided me to the edge of her bed, her movements deliberate yet shy.

“Are you sure?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

She nodded, her cheeks flushed. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Her hands found the buttons of my shirt, and as each one came undone, her lips followed, leaving a trail of warmth along my chest. 

My pulse raced as I slipped my fingers under the hem of her blouse, feeling the softness of her skin.

We moved together, slowly at first, exploring each other with a mix of curiosity and reverence. 

Every touch, every kiss felt like a discovery, a moment etched into memory.

Her laughter broke through the intensity as we fumbled with the clasp of her bra, and I couldn’t help but grin. 

“First time nerves?” she teased, her voice light but her gaze burning with desire.

“Not nerves,” I replied, my hands sliding down her back. “Just… awe.”

The rest of the night was a blur of sensations, her hands on my skin, her lips on mine, the way her body arched beneath me. 

It was more than just physical; it was a connection, a merging of souls that left me breathless.

In the quiet aftermath, as we lay tangled in each other’s arms, I traced lazy circles on her bare shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this… whole,” I admitted, my voice breaking the silence.

She looked up at me, her sapphire eyes filled with a softness that made my chest ache. “Neither have I,” she said, her fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face.

That night wasn’t the last time we shared such intimacy, but it was the first time I truly understood what it meant to be wanted, not for a moment, but for everything I was.

***

Now, as I sit by her hospital bed, holding her hand while she breathes through another contraction, the memory of that night feels like a lifetime ago.

“I’m scared,” she whispers, her voice trembling.

I squeeze her hand, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You’re the strongest person I know. You’ve got this. We’ve got this.”

When our son finally arrives, his cries filling the room, I feel a surge of emotion so overwhelming that tears spill from my eyes.

As I hold him for the first time, his tiny fingers wrapping around mine, I whisper, “You were born into arms that have been waiting for you, little one. And you are so, so loved.”

Ivy smiles up at me, exhausted but radiant, and in that moment, I know I’ve found everything I was ever searching for.

But something still feels empty. I have Ivy, I have my son, I have the love I desperately yearned for.

What is missing? 

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