**April 12th, 1987**
It was a rare day off for Margaret, and she decided to treat her family to something special. After some thought, she settled on baking an apple crumble—everyone’s favourite. But when she checked the cupboard, she realised she’d run out of flour. She threw on her coat, locked up, and headed to the nearest shop. The house was empty—her husband, William, had taken their sons to visit his parents in the neighbouring village, and her daughter, Emily, was still in town—or so she thought.
When she returned, the air felt wrong. Someone was home. Not just anyone—Emily’s shoes were by the door. Her chest tightened. Quietly, she set the shopping bag on the kitchen counter and walked to Emily’s room, her steps faltering at the sight before her. Curled on the bed, face buried in her hands, Emily was sobbing.
Margaret hesitated only a moment before sitting beside her, smoothing her daughter’s hair. Emily’s voice trembled as the story spilled out. There had been a boy—Oliver—who swore he loved her, who’d been by her side for nearly a year. Then, in an instant, everything shattered.
When Emily found out she was pregnant, fear had flickered, but so had hope. She wanted to tell Oliver first, then her parents. But Oliver? He panicked. Worse—he vanished. Calls went unanswered. He erased her from his life as if she’d never existed.
“Mum,” Emily whispered, tears streaking her cheeks, “don’t be angry… I didn’t mean to keep it from you. I just thought—I thought it would be different.”
Margaret stayed quiet. Not from anger. From grief—for her daughter, for the cruelty of it. She pulled Emily close. “You don’t owe me anything, love. Not a thing. Just that little one,” she murmured. “We’ll sort the rest. Together.”
That evening, when William returned with the boys, Margaret told him. He was silent a long while, then looked at Emily, at her, and smiled. “Well, Meg… You know I always wanted another girl. Suppose a granddaughter’s the next best thing. Maybe even a grandson. Either way—it’s a blessing. Unexpected, maybe. But ours.”
Margaret exhaled, relief washing over her. William was a simple man, but steady. Emily managed a tearful smile. That night, they ate as a family, already knowing their home would soon grow by one.
They decided together: Emily would take a gap year, return to her studies after the baby came. And as for Oliver? William shook his head. “That sort of lad’s no son-in-law of mine. We don’t welcome cowards in this house.” No one argued.
Yet, as it often does, the village began to whisper. “Got herself in trouble,” they muttered. “Probably some married bloke’s doing.” No one dared say it to their faces, but Margaret felt their eyes.
One day at the shops, the local gossip—Brenda—sidled up. “Heard about your Emily. Who’s the father, then? Or doesn’t she know?”
Margaret placed a box of candles on the counter. “Here. Might help you see better while you’re poking about in other folk’s business. Don’t recall any ‘trouble’ under *my* girl’s skirts—but you might spot something if you squint hard enough.”
The queue burst into laughter. Brenda flushed and never brought it up again.
Emily had a girl. They named her Charlotte. William adored her. Two years later, Emily married a kind man who loved the little girl as his own. They lived happily, in warmth and respect—the way a family should.
