3rd May, London
“You’ve got nothing to say for yourself.” Emily flung her arm out, pointing sharply to the door. “Get out!”
She stormed out of college and walked the opposite way from the bus stop. Mother’s Day was just days away, and she still hadn’t bought Gran a present. Couldn’t make up her mind. Rushing towards the shops, her phone buzzed faintly in her bag. She stopped, fished it out. Gran calling.
“Gran, I’ll be home soon,” Emily said.
“Alright,” Gran replied.
Something in her voice felt off—guilty, almost.
“Everything all right?” Emily pressed before the call could drop.
“I’m fine. Just… hurry back.” The line went dead.
Tucking her phone away, Emily turned on her heel toward the bus stop, mind racing. Why the urgency? Something was wrong. Why didn’t Gran just say? She should call back—this suspense was unbearable. But then she spotted her bus pulling up and broke into a run.
Maybe Gran’s purse got nicked at the shops and she’s upset. Or her blood pressure’s spiked. Feels like it. Blast this slow bus—every traffic light’s red. I’d be faster on foot.
The bus crawled through London’s streets, Emily scowling out the window. Finally, her stop. She bolted for home, glancing up at their flat’s window. Still daylight, yet the lamp was on. Heart thudding, she sprinted into the building, fumbling for her keys at the door.
“Where are they—?”
The lock clicked. The door swung open. Gran stood there.
“Were you waiting for me?” Emily frowned.
“Come in,” Gran said tersely, stepping aside.
Emily studied her in the hallway. Gran was nervous—that much was obvious.
“What’s happened?”
“Emily, love…” Gran glanced at the half-closed living room door, then leaned closer, voice low. “We’ve company.”
“Who?” Emily whispered back.
Gran’s unease was catching. Faces flashed through Emily’s mind—who’d turn up unannounced and rattle steady-as-a-rock Gran?
“You’ll see. Come on, get your coat off.”
Hanging her jacket, Emily spotted an unfamiliar trench coat on the rack. Beneath it, knee-high white boots. Her stomach knotted. She’d always wanted a pair like that.
She shot Gran a questioning look, but Gran only gave her a fretful glance before nudging the living room door open. Emily smoothed her hair and stepped in.
The lamp was off. The overhead light blazed. A woman in a black dress stood from the sofa—collarbones sharp under the neckline, dark hair half-escaped from a messy updo. Exhausted eyes. She looked drained. Ill. Or fresh from a funeral.
She forced a smile at Emily. Recognition seared through her. The word “Mum” flickered and vanished. Fourteen years. Still, she knew.
The woman’s smile faltered at whatever showed on Emily’s face. What’d she expect? A tearful reunion?
She’d been pretty once. Now, black aged her, the tired lines deeper. Thirty-nine? Looked fifty. Life had been cruel.
“Hello, love,” the woman said. “You’re so grown. A proper beauty. Gran says you’ve a boyfriend.”
Emily glared at Gran, who dropped her gaze. The woman stepped forward; Emily stepped back. The woman froze. Emily wanted to bolt, never see her again. Too much hurt. Too much anger.
“Why’re you here?” Emily’s chin lifted, voice sharp with it.
“Just… came back. Your birthday’s soon.” The woman tried another smile, wilted under Emily’s glare.
“Two weeks. Bit late to remember, isn’t it? Where’ve you been? Not one call—not one!”
“Emily, she sent money,” Gran cut in weakly.
“Oh, yes! A whole grand! Got us pasta and rice for months. Till next birthday. Why come now? Could’ve just wired it. Or is there none this time? Thought you’d grace us with your presence instead?” She scoffed.
“I don’t want your grand. Or you. Don’t come on my birthday. Seen me now? Piss off back where you came from.”
The woman didn’t move.
“Coming home from school, Gran’d gush about your calls. Said you sent love, promised to visit. I waited like an idiot. You never rang. I caught on—Gran lied so I’d think you cared. I played along to spare her. We kept that up for years.”
Emily’s throat burned. “At school, I bragged to mates you called, sent loads for gifts. Said you were saving for a flat, would fetch me soon. Believed it myself. Truth was too cruel—you just left. Forgot me.”
“I didn’t forget—”
“After GCSEs, I went to college—sewing courses. A year in, I made dresses for Gran’s friends. Paid peanuts, but God, I was proud. While girls went clubbing, I hunched over that machine till midnight—”
“Forgive me,” the woman whispered.
“Don’t call me that!”
Even the china in the cabinet seemed to rattle.
“Did he chuck you? Found someone younger? Serves you right. Now you know how it feels.”
“Emily,” Gran chided.
Gran shrank under her look.
“Why’d you let her in? She ditched us both. Look at her—all dressed for a funeral. Play-acting remorse. You never wondered how we got by. Oh, but you sent a grand. Must’ve hurt, scraping that together.”
“Let me explain—”
“I don’t care. Too late for excuses.” Emily jabbed a finger at the door. “Out!”
“Emily, she’s your mother,” Gran pleaded.
“Where was she when I was ill? You sat up crying. Hospital visits? You brought soup. Other kids got kissed by their mums—” Her voice cracked. She steadied it. “Out.”
The woman shuffled past. Cloying perfume choked the air. Emily fled to the kitchen, wrenching the window open, gulping London’s exhaust like oxygen.
Gran followed. “She’s gone. Should’ve warned you. She just turned up.”
“Fed her, did you?”
“She’s my daughter. Lost, but mine.”
Emily cried into her hands. Gran rubbed her back. “It’s the hurt talking. I’m not excusing her. But she’s young. Might turn things round.”
“Let her rot.”
—
The next day, Emily bought Gran a scarf. On the walk back, she spotted the woman. Walked right past.
By Friday, the white boots were back in the hall. Emily kicked them.
Now she was always glancing over her shoulder, braced for that guilty-pleading look. It bloody well ruined everything.
The woman sat at the kitchen table—black trousers, emerald jumper, sickly-pale. Gran stirred pasta.
“Why’re you here?” Emily blocked the doorway.
“Hear her out,” Gran said.
“Got nothing to say I want to hear.”
“Even criminals get last words,” Gran snapped.
Emily folded her arms. “Talk.”
The woman sputtered the same rubbish. Bloke left her penniless.
“Nowhere to go. Just till I find work—”
“What if you don’t? What if I can’t stand seeing you?”
The woman faltered. “I’ll try—”
“Piss off.” Emily stormed out.
Later, Gran sat on her bed. “I’m not asking you to love her. But I’m old. Blood pressure’s dodgy. If I pop off, you’ll be alone. Give her a chance. She won’t live here.”
“You gave her rent money?”
“She swore she’ll work. I had to.”
—
Her boyfriend Jack came back from visiting his dad up North. She told him everything.
“Gran’s right. Give her time. You’ll be at uni soon. We’ll get our own place. Let her be.”
Emily buried her face in his chest. “She’s a stranger.”
“I know.”
On her birthday, Emily binned the woman’s gift unopened. They settled into a truce—visits only when Emily was out.
Never forgave her. Never tried. At her wedding, the woman wasn’t invited. Finished her degree in fashion, had a daughter. Once, just once, she let the woman peek at the baby.
Maybe that was the first crack. A nod to the fact that the woman—useless as she was—existed.
Lesson learned: Some wounds don’t heal. You just learn to step around them.
