“You decided to have a child without a husband? Aren’t you ashamed, Mum?” – Lisa asked accusingly.
Right after her graduation ball, Lisa sent her application to university. She had no doubts she’d get in—her A-level results were strong, more than enough compared to last year’s entry requirements.
That summer was unusually hot. Her best friend suggested a trip to her aunt’s in Brighton. Two or three weeks by the sea, free from parental watch, diving headfirst into an exciting grown-up life—it sounded perfect. But the day before departure, nerves crept in. Not because she’d never travelled without her mother before, but because she’d be away from James for so long.
Mum, Ingrid, had just turned thirty-seven. She and Lisa’s father had separated when Lisa was barely three. She didn’t remember him—not that there was much to remember. Her parents had married young, barely knowing each other, and collapsed under the first real pressures: sleepless nights, a crying baby, endless demands, empty pockets, and bitter blame.
Once Lisa grew older, Ingrid tried to move on—but either her suitors didn’t want another man’s child, or Lisa disapproved of them. Then, two years ago, James appeared. He visited often, though never stayed the night—at least, not that Lisa noticed. He was fun, always bringing gifts, and on her last birthday, he’d given her a bouquet of deep red roses.
And Lisa fell in love. James was two years younger than Mum—hardly a gap, but to Lisa, it mattered. She was convinced she suited him better. Every glance he gave her, she took as interest. Why not? She was half Mum’s age, just eighteen. If he had to choose, surely he’d pick her. That’s what she told herself, even as jealousy gnawed at her.
Now, while she tanned and swam, everything could change. He might propose. And then James would be lost to her forever.
The night before her trip, Ingrid bustled in the kitchen while Lisa agonised over confessing to James.
“Lisa, pop to the shop. I forgot the cheese, and we’re low on mayo,” Ingrid called.
“Mum, I haven’t finished packing!” Lisa snapped.
With a sigh, Ingrid went herself.
Minutes later, the doorbell rang. James. Lisa’s heart raced. Here was her chance—alone with him.
She played the gracious host, settling him on the sofa, filling the air with small talk before flicking the telly on and sitting close. He glanced at her but didn’t shift away.
Their arms touched. Her pulse hammered. Boldness surged—she clutched his wrist, pressed nearer. His cheek was inches from her lips. She’d never been this close, never breathed in that mix of aftershave and him.
Drunk on it, she kissed his cheek.
James didn’t recoil—just turned his head slightly and stood. His eyes held only confusion. Shame flooded her. She’d imagined it all. To him, she was just Ingrid’s daughter. Face burning, she dropped her gaze.
The lock turned. If James meant to speak, the moment slipped away—Ingrid rushed in, breathless.
“James! You’re early! Can you believe I forgot the cheese? And the mayo! With Lisa leaving, my head’s scrambled. Salad’s nearly done—dinner soon!” She beamed at him, warmth glowing between them.
Lisa’s heart shattered. He never looked at her like that. She bolted to her room.
“What’s wrong with her?” Ingrid frowned. “Did something happen?”
“What’s for dinner?” James deflected.
“Oh, you must be starving—just wait!” She vanished into the kitchen, pausing at the door. “I’ve news. After dinner.”
“Hope it’s good,” James muttered, thinking of Lisa’s kiss.
Meanwhile, Lisa leaned against her door, heart pounding, praying something would make him leave. Facing him now was unbearable.
Yet when called to dinner, she went. Sat opposite James, eyes down, until his easy chatter drew her in. He acted as if nothing had happened. She laughed along, like before—when he’d just been Mum’s.
Still, that fleeting closeness lingered, unsettled her.
“What was your news?” James asked over tea.
“Patience!” Ingrid teased, fluttering her lashes.
Lisa hated when Mum acted girlish.
“Lisa’s off tomorrow—all grown up. I worry. Maybe I shouldn’t let her go?”
“I’m not alone! We’re staying with adults!” Lisa snapped.
“Lisa’s smart. She’ll be fine.” James met her eyes—her stomach flipped. “Besides, what’s there to do here all summer?”
“Three whole weeks for you two to have the flat to yourselves,” she said, glaring.
“Lisa! Stop it. What’s got into you?”
“Nothing!” She shoved her chair back—the screech on tiles deliberate—and fled.
Voices murmured from the kitchen. Later, Ingrid knocked.
“Talk to me. This isn’t like you.” She perched on the bed. Lisa stayed curled up, facing the wall.
“Packed everything?”
Lisa scoffed inwardly. *Obviously. Can’t you see my rucksack?*
“Why are you angry?”
“You act… silly. Giggling, flirting—it’s pathetic.”
“I’m not pretending. Love makes fools of us all. You’ll see.” Ingrid stroked her back. Lisa shrugged her off.
“Is that all?”
“Look at me.”
Lisa rolled over, staring at the ceiling.
“I love you. More than anything.” A pause. “I’m having a baby.”
The words took a moment to land.
“A baby? James’s?” Her voice faltered. “You’re getting married?”
“No. He’s married. It doesn’t matter.”
“*Married?* Mum, listen to yourself! Having a child alone—aren’t you ashamed?”
“Why should I be? I’m a grown woman—”
“Exactly! Would you say that if it were me? Why won’t he leave his wife?”
“It’s complicated. Maybe later—”
“You haven’t told him?” Lisa sat bolt upright.
Their eyes locked. Ingrid looked away first.
“I didn’t want to pressure him.”
“Mum, you’ll be on maternity leave, I’ll be at uni—how will we live? Get an abortion. Spare us the shame.”
“I won’t. You’ll marry; I’ll be alone—”
“You’ll have grandchildren!” Lisa’s voice cracked. “He’ll never leave her. You know it. It’s disgusting—your age!”
“I didn’t expect you to—”
“What? Be *happy*? Your grandchild and son the same age? It’s unnatural!”
“Enough.” Ingrid left.
Lisa knew she’d gone too far. Women had children older all the time—but not Mum, not with James. She’d never imagined them together like that. It repulsed her.
Next morning, silence hung thick. Her friend’s dad drove them to the station. At the door, rucksack in hand, Lisa almost begged Mum to reconsider—but said nothing.
“Bye.”
“Call me!” Ingrid’s voice chased her.
The drive was suffocating. Her friends’ chatter drowned her thoughts. By the time they reached Brighton, the guilt had dulled. Why could mothers dictate daughters’ lives, but not the reverse? If *she* were pregnant, Mum would react the same.
She swam, tanned, laughed—yet after two weeks, she missed home. Oddly, she missed Ingrid, not James.
Returning in August, sun-kissed, she found Ingrid on the sofa, staring blankly, still in a black long-sleeved dress—on a workday.
“Mum? I’m back!”
No hug. No smile.
Then, hollow-voiced: “James is dead. A car crash. Buried yesterday. I couldn’t even say goodbye.”
Lisa froze. “Where?”
“His family’s plot, I suppose.”
“Let’s go tomorrow.”
Ingrid’s eyes flickered.
“I’ll tell him… He never knew. Stupid. I didn’t want him to think I trapped him. Now he’s gone to no one—just the earth.”
“You didn’t tell him?”
Ingrid shook her head. Lisa felt a flash of relief—then guilt.
“I loved him. But this baby… What’s it without him?”
“Don’t say that! It’s *his*. We’ll manage—I’ll help.” She knelt, resting her head on Ingrid’s hands.
“You don’t want me to end it?”
“No. Forgive me. You raised me alone—now you’ve got me. We’ll be okay…”
“Thank you. Forgive *me*. He’d have been happy…” She broke into sobs.
Lisa held her, soothing, roles reversed. NoA year later, as Lisa rocked baby Freddie to sleep, watching his tiny fingers curl around hers, she finally understood that love wasn’t something to be divided—only multiplied.
