There was no doubt it was meant to be.
Layla was practically floating on her way to the disco.
A short denim skirt, skin-tight leggings in metallic silver, pristine white trainers, a crop top with a model’s face printed on it, and a high ponytail tied with a thick scrunchie. Lips painted candy pink, eyes smudged with rainbow shadows. A proper star.
Everyone said Layla Harper was something special. She knew it too—pride of the neighbourhood. Got herself into university in London all on her own, no favours, no handouts.
Remember what Mrs. Whitaker used to snipe?
*”You, Harper, haven’t got a snowball’s chance in hell of getting into uni! Trade school at best, and even then, only if your stepdad pulls strings. Otherwise, street-sweepers’ll be fighting over you.”*
Ah, right. The stepdad. Her real father had long vanished over the horizon. And her stepdad? Not likely to lift a finger for *”such a waste of space.”*
Mrs. Whitaker had waited for the tears. But Layla stood, looked her dead in the eye, and tossed back, calm as you like—
*”We’ll see who ends up where.”*
Mrs. Whitaker squinted, swore bloody revenge when exams came. But Layla aced them. Got in. Alone. No *”special arrangements.”* That was that.
*”Fancy a bit of true love, love?”*
*”With you? Jameson, have you lost the plot?”*
*”Oh, come off it, Layls. How’s life?”*
*”Better than yours.”*
*”That figure, though… mm.”*
*”Want one like it?”*
*”Wouldn’t say no.”*
*”Pop round, I’ll dress you up—you’ll look almost decent.”*
*”Christ, you’re vicious, Harper. Might be I’m sweet on you.”*
*”Bugger off, you ghoul. Nan blessed an aspen cross for me—wards off your sort and night terrors both.”*
*”Bit harsh—”*
*”Bit necessary. Just in case.”*
They wandered the evening streets, tossing quips back and forth. Young. Free. Invincible.
*”Reckon we ought to drop by school Monday?” Jameson grinned.*
*”Mad? What for?”*
*”Imagine old Whitaker’s face when she finds out you got into uni. Proper uni.”*
Layla snorted.
*”Couldn’t care less. You?”*
*”Knock about till summer, then it’s off to the army. You’ll wait for me?”*
*”Sure. I’ll perch on a bench in a headscarf, knitting you socks. Miles of ’em.”*
*”Oh, piss off—”*
*”Exactly.”*
*”Oi, look—that’s Sarah! She went to technical college?”*
*”Yep. To each their own. Right, Mike, I’m off. Girls are waiting. You sweet on Sarah?”*
*”Nah, just… y’know. Hanging about.”*
*”She’s nice. She’ll wait. I won’t.”*
*”So that’s a hard no?”*
*”No.”* Sharp. Final. And she walked away.
Uni came easy to Layla. Not because it was—she just never complained.
*”How d’you manage it?” her flatmate asked.*
*”What?”*
*”Y’know—films, discos, coursework…”*
*”Dunno.” Layla shrugged. *”I just live. Don’t whinge. Don’t bother with lads. Study’s my future. Fun? Why not now?”*
*”I want to marry rich.”*
*”I don’t.”*
She met Daniel at a disco. Too pushy—she bolted. Next day, he turned up at halls with flowers and chocolates. She slammed the door. He came back with cinema tickets. She ducked past.
By then, his attention had her eye twitching. Near loathed him. And then Jameson started writing from barracks—not about drills, about *feelings*.
As if she’d forgotten him racing round in brown tights under shorts till fourteen. His nan dragging him to a witch for bed-wetting.
Daniel rode a motorbike, lurked like some film rogue. Then—he crashed. Right in front of her. And she ran. Not for *him*. For a person.
And somehow… she said yes to a date.
Six months in. No butterflies. No grand love. Just… *there*. He felt like home.
Then Jameson’s letter: slurs, accusations, filth. Someone had talked. She hadn’t hidden it.
Daniel was simpler. Steady. With him, she could dream—wedding, future.
*”Lucky you, Layls,” her flatmate sighed.*
*”How?”*
*”Daniel. You don’t know who he is?”*
*”Meaning?”*
*”His dad’s loaded. Bought him the bike. Now a car. Only child. Parents are minted. Old money.”*
*”And?”*
*”Rumour is… he’s already engaged. Lily. Families merging businesses.”*
That night, she asked. Daniel fidgeted.
*”Dad’s idea. I won’t. Don’t want Lily. I’ve got you. We’ll leave.”*
*”I’m visiting my folks this weekend.”*
*”Right…”* She could’ve sworn he exhaled in relief.
When she returned—something was off. Girls exchanged glances. Lads smirked.
*”What’s happened?”*
*”Sit down… Layla… Daniel… he—”*
*”What?”*
*”He got married.”*
No tremble. No tear. Inside—collapse. Outside—stone.
*”Is that all?”*
*”You’re so calm—”*
*”What should I be? I knew. I left to be sure. He married. I let him. Makes sense.”*
She leaned in.
*”Never say his name again. To me, he’s dead.”*
After graduation, she didn’t go home. She went to the maternity ward.
Oliver was born. Sturdy. A fighter.
*”Layla… will you… tell the father?”*
*”Mum. Never. Don’t ask.”*
*”Alright, it’s just… I hoped you wouldn’t follow my path.”*
*”I haven’t. You married dad. I didn’t.”*
*”You’ll stay with us?”*
She saw it—mother’s fear. Stepdad’s distaste.
*”I see. Not even from the hospital?”*
*”Don’t be silly, of course we’ll fetch you—”*
They came. Stepdad shook her hand in silence.
*”Dad says you can stay a month or two.”*
*”Ta. We’ll be quick.”*
Oliver hardly cried. As if he knew—they weren’t wanted.
Within a month, they moved in with Nan. The old woman clutched them close, whispered, *”You’re home now.”*
Then—a knock.
*”Jameson?” Layla blinked. *”How’d you—”*
*”Got the address from my mum—”*
They sat in the kitchen. Nan squinted.
*”Not the father, this one. Mike. Childhood friend.”*
*”Right… I’ll take the lad for air.” Nan shuffled out.*
*”Layla—” he began once the door shut. *”I’m here. For you. For him.”*
*”Out of pity?”*
*”No! I love you. Always have.”*
*”And the baby doesn’t bother you?”*
*”No, I—”*
*”Remember your mum’s face when she heard I’d had a kid? Looked at me like muck.”*
*”That’s past—”*
*”Get out. Don’t ever look my way again.”*
*”Who’d want you with baggage?!”*
*”Who’d want you without a brain?”*
The door slammed. She stood, shaking.
*”Friend?” Nan asked softly.*
*”Schoolmate. Idiot. Followed me round for years.”*
*”Came to propose?”*
*”Nan—” She laughed through tears. *”He wet the bed till thirteen!”*
Nan cackled. Then, quieter—
*”But what if—”*
*”No *what ifs.* I lived with a stepdad. I know what *that* looks like.”*
Layla stood again. For her son. For herself.
Because none of it was an accident.She raised her chin, stepped into the cold morning light, and walked forward without looking back.
