“Did you decide to have a child without a husband? Aren’t you ashamed, Mum?” Lisa asked with reproach.
Right after her graduation party, Lisa submitted her university applications. She had no doubt she’d get in—her A-level results were more than enough, judging by last year’s admission requirements.
That summer was sweltering. Her best friend suggested they visit her aunt in Brighton. The idea of spending two or three weeks by the sea, without parental supervision, diving headfirst into an exciting adult life, was tempting. But as the departure day loomed, Lisa grew uneasy. Not because it was her first trip without her mother, but because she wouldn’t see Jason for weeks.
Ingrid, Lisa’s mother, had just turned thirty-seven. She’d split with her husband when Lisa was barely three. Lisa had no memory of her father—not that there was much to remember. Her parents had married young, barely knowing each other, and crumbled under the first real strains of life: sleepless nights, a crying child, constant demands, financial struggles, and bitter resentment.
As Lisa grew older, Ingrid tried to rebuild her personal life. Some men weren’t keen on raising another man’s child; others didn’t sit right with Lisa. Then, two years ago, Jason walked into their lives. He visited often, though never stayed the night—at least, not that Lisa noticed. He was funny, charming, bringing gifts. For her last birthday, he’d given her a massive bouquet of red roses.
And Lisa fell in love. Jason was two years younger than Ingrid—hardly a gap, but Lisa thought differently. She convinced herself she suited him better than her mother did. Every glance, every word, she took as proof of his interest. Why wouldn’t he choose her? She was eighteen—half her mother’s age. If it came down to it, surely he’d pick her. That’s what she told herself. And she burned with jealousy every time he smiled at Ingrid.
Two weeks at the seaside was enough time for everything to change. He could propose. Then, Jason would be lost to her forever.
The night before her trip, Ingrid bustled in the kitchen while Lisa agonised over confessing her feelings.
“Lisa, pop to the shop, will you? I forgot cheese, and we’re nearly out of mayo,” Ingrid called from the doorway.
“Mum, I haven’t even finished packing,” Lisa muttered.
Ingrid sighed and went herself.
Minutes later, the doorbell rang. Jason. Lisa’s heart leapt. This was her chance to talk to him alone.
She played the perfect hostess—settling him on the couch, making small talk, flicking on the telly before sitting close. Their shoulders touched. She couldn’t help herself. She grabbed his arm, pressing nearer. His cheek was inches from her lips. She’d never been this close before, breathing in the mix of his cologne and something undeniably him.
It made her bold. She kissed his cheek.
Jason didn’t recoil—just tilted his head away and stood. Confusion flickered in his eyes. Shame crashed over her. She’d imagined it all. To him, she was just Ingrid’s daughter. Flushing, she dropped her gaze.
The lock turned. If Jason had wanted to say something, the moment was gone. Ingrid hurried in, out of breath.
“Jason! You’re early! I forgot the cheese, of all things. Then remembered the mayo at the till. This trip’s got me all scattered. Let me finish dinner,” she said, smiling.
The way they looked at each other—soft, loving—ripped Lisa apart. He’d never look at her like that. She bolted to her room.
“What’s wrong with her?” Ingrid frowned. “Did something happen?”
“What’s for dinner?” Jason deflected.
“You must be starving. I’ll hurry.” She moved to the kitchen, then paused. “I’ve got news. Later.” Then she vanished.
“Wonder what that is,” Jason murmured, still reeling from Lisa’s kiss.
Behind her door, Lisa pressed a hand to her racing heart, praying something—anything—would make Jason leave. Facing him now was unbearable.
Dinner was torture. Jason acted as if nothing had happened, telling stories while Ingrid laughed. Lisa forced herself to join in, pretending everything was normal. But that brief closeness still lingered, tying her in knots.
“So, what’s this news?” Jason asked as Ingrid cleared the plates.
“Patience,” she teased, fluttering her lashes.
Lisa hated when her mum acted like a schoolgirl.
“Lisa’s leaving tomorrow. Brighton, all by herself. I can’t believe she’s grown up so fast. Maybe I shouldn’t let her go…” Ingrid mused.
“I’m not going alone! And we’re staying with adults,” Lisa snapped.
“Lisa’s sensible. She’ll be fine,” Jason said, meeting her eyes. Her stomach flipped. “Besides, what’s there to do here in summer?”
“Exactly. Three whole weeks without me in the way,” Lisa shot back, glaring.
“Lisa! What’s got into you?” Ingrid gaped.
“Nothing.” She shoved her chair back, screeching it across the tiles—knowing full well Ingrid hated that—and fled.
Muffled voices carried from the kitchen. When Jason left, Ingrid knocked.
“Talk to me. You’ve never been like this. What’s wrong?” She perched on the bed’s edge. Lisa curled away.
“Did you pack everything?” Ingrid tried.
*Obviously. Can’t you see the stuffed rucksack?* Lisa fumed silently.
“Why are you angry?” Ingrid pressed.
“You act… ridiculous. Giggling, flirting, like some teenager. It’s embarrassing,” Lisa muttered.
“I’m not pretending. Love makes you silly. You’ll see.” Ingrid stroked her back. Lisa shrugged her off.
“Is that what you came to say?”
“Look at me. I can’t talk to your back.”
Lisa rolled over, staring at the ceiling.
“I love you. More than anyone,” Ingrid began carefully. “I’m pregnant.”
Silence.
“Pregnant? Jason’s?” Lisa’s voice cracked. “So you’re getting married?”
“No. He’s married. But it doesn’t matter.”
“*Married?!* Mum, listen to yourself! You’re having a baby alone? Aren’t you ashamed?”
“Why should I be? I’m a grown woman—”
“So if *I* said this, you’d be fine with it? Why won’t he leave his wife?” Lisa demanded.
“It’s complicated. Maybe after the baby—”
“You haven’t told him?!” Lisa sat up sharply.
They locked eyes. Ingrid looked away first.
“I didn’t want him to think I was trapping him.”
“Mum, you’ll be on maternity leave, I’ll be at uni—how will we live? By the time this kid finishes school, you’ll retire. Raising another child alone? Get an abortion. Don’t humiliate yourself.”
“Never. You’ll marry, move out… I’ll be alone…” Ingrid stumbled.
“You’ll have grandchildren!” Lisa’s voice broke. “Abort it. Jason won’t know. If he hasn’t left her yet, he won’t. You know that. Mum, it’s *shameful*. You’re too old for this.”
“I never thought you’d…” Ingrid whispered.
“What, *celebrate*? Your grandchild and son would be the same age. That’s *disgusting*.”
“I heard you.” Ingrid stood and left.
Lisa knew she was wrong. Women had babies at forty. But this wasn’t just anyone—it was Mum. And Jason. She *knew* how babies were made, but picturing them together? It made her skin crawl.
Next morning, they barely spoke. A friend’s dad drove Lisa to the station. At the door, backpack slung over her shoulder, Lisa almost begged Ingrid to reconsider. But she stayed silent.
“Bye.”
“Call me!” Ingrid called after her.
Guilt gnawed at her. In the car, she almost texted, but her friends’ chatter distracted her. She’d do it later.
They laughed carefree—their mothers weren’t pregnant. Lisa’s guilt faded. Why could parents dictate their daughters’ lives, but not the other way around? If *she* were pregnant, Mum would’ve reacted the same. So Lisa never sent the text.
She swam, sunbathed, relaxed. But after two weeks, she missed home. Oddly, she missed Ingrid. Jason barely crossed her mind.
Early August, tanned and glowing, Lisa returned. Ingrid sat on the sofa, staring blankly. She should’ve been at work.
“Mum! I’m back!”
No response.
Lisa froze. Ingrid wore a black long-sleeved dress, pale, eyes red but dry.
“Jason’s dead. Buried yesterday. I couldn’t even say goodbye,”She knelt beside her mother, holding her close, and whispered, “We’ll be alright—we have each other and little Jason now.”
