*”What the hell are you doing in my laptop?”* Alex loomed over Emily. She had never seen him like this before.
Emily had come home from school and immediately smelled the stale reek of booze in the hallway. Loud snoring rumbled from the living room. Dad was drunk again. She headed straight to the kitchen.
Mum stood at the sink, peeling potatoes. Hearing footsteps, she glanced over her shoulder. Emily’s sharp eyes instantly caught the red, swollen cheek.
*”Mum, let’s just leave him. How much longer are we going to put up with this? He could kill you,”* Emily spat, her voice tight with anger.
*”And go where? Who’d want us? We can’t afford rent. Don’t worry, he won’t kill me. He’s a coward. Only brave enough to swing fists at me.”*
The next morning, strange noises woke Emily. She padded to the kitchen and found Dad standing by the stove, tipping the kettle straight into his open mouth. She stared, mesmerised, at his bobbing Adam’s apple. Up, down. Up, down. The water gurgled down his throat. *”Choke. Please, just choke,”* she silently willed.
But he didn’t. He slammed the kettle down, grunted, gave her a bleary-eyed glare, and shuffled off to the bathroom. Emily shuddered at the thought of Mum refilling that kettle without washing it first. She scrubbed it furiously, vowing never to drink from it again without rinsing it clean.
At Christmas, Emily’s class took a weekend trip to Edinburgh. When she returned, Mum was in hospital.
*”Did he do this to you?”* Emily demanded, staring at the bandages.
*”No, love. Slipped on the ice.”*
But Emily knew she was lying.
Years of head injuries left Mum with high blood pressure. Six months later, she had a stroke and died. Dad bawled drunkenly at the funeral, one minute mourning his *”beloved Susan,”* the next cursing her for the same. He told Emily she was just like her mother and threatened to kill her if she ever left.
Emily counted the days until she could escape. She skipped prom, collected her A-level certificates in secret, and fled while Dad was at work. She’d been skimming from the grocery money—sometimes pinching notes from his pocket while he slept. It wasn’t much, but enough to get by. She’d find work, study remotely. She wasn’t afraid he’d come looking—the local constable and neighbours knew his habits. No one would help him.
She rented a dingy, cheap flat in Manchester and got a job at Nando’s. Free meals, help with her food hygiene certificate—small perks that helped. She enrolled in an accounting course, and when Nando’s found out, they put her on tills.
Lads tried chatting her up. *”They’re all sweet at first, then they start drinking or cheating. Don’t trust their smooth words, love. Be careful. I was pretty once too. Your dad didn’t drink when we met. We loved each other. And look how that turned out,”* Mum had warned.
Emily remembered. She ignored the lads. She’d seen where that road led.
Every payday, Mum stocked up on pasta, rice, tinned goods—anything to last when Dad drank the money away. Now, Emily did the same.
One evening, arms aching under heavy bags, she collided with a bloke glued to his phone.
*”Sorry,”* he said, finally looking up.
Emily nearly snapped—*watch where you’re going!*—but his warm, interested gaze disarmed her.
*”My fault,”* she said, smiling.
He offered to help carry her bags. Hesitant, she handed one over. Surely someone with a smile like that couldn’t be bad. His name was Alex. He walked her home but didn’t push to come inside.
The next day, he *”just happened”* to visit Nando’s. They started dating.
Alex admitted he was divorced, had a little girl he adored. He’d given his ex the house, crashed with a mate. *”Married too young. We had nothing in common. Sometimes went days without speaking.”*
But he doted on his daughter. That, Emily decided, meant he was trustworthy. A month in, he suggested moving in together.
*”Let’s get a proper flat, closer to town. Easier with two.”*
Emily agreed. She was floating. A real family at last.
They rented a one-bed, toasted their new life. Alex paid the first two months’ rent upfront. The third month, he sheepishly asked her to cover it. *”Daughter’s birthday—got her a big gift, and alimony…”*
What was there to question? She paid. Soon, it was always *something*—his girl was ill, his parents needed help. Emily footed the bills. Weren’t they family, after all?
When she found out she was pregnant, she burst with the news. Alex didn’t sweep her up like in films—just nodded.
*”Thought you’d be happy,”* she mumbled.
*”Just surprised. I *am* happy.”* He kissed her. Relief.
But as weeks passed, no proposal came. Then, morning sickness hit. The sight of food turned her stomach. Alex had to cook.
*”My ex never had this. Maybe something’s wrong with you?”* he snapped once.
*”Everyone’s different. It’ll pass,”* she said, hiding the sting.
It did pass—replaced by ravenous hunger. She ballooned, her clothes straining.
*”We’re skint, and you buy a new dress?”* Alex scowled.
*”I need something to wear! Spent it all on your daughter again?”*
*”She’s *my* kid. I’ll buy her what she needs. You knew that.”*
*”And our baby? Where does it rank?”* she shouted.
*”I never thought you’d be like this.”*
*”Like *what*? I love you! If she matters more, there won’t *be* a baby!”*
She didn’t see the slap coming. Her cheek burned.
*”I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”* Alex was on his knees, begging.
*Dad only hit Mum when drunk. Alex doesn’t even drink.*
But his tears disarmed her. She forgave him.
For a while, he was sweet again. She convinced herself he wasn’t like her father.
Then, nearing maternity leave, she opened his laptop to browse cheap prams. Prices depressed her. Second-hand it was.
As she went to shut it, her finger slipped—clicking a folder. A pretty young girl smiled back, tossing autumn leaves. The next photo showed her posing.
Who was this? His ex? No—this girl was barely twenty. Heart racing, she ignored the obvious.
Alex came home. She jerked away, but the laptop lid hadn’t closed.
*”Were you in my laptop?”* His voice was ice.
*”Just looking at prams. I accidentally opened—”*
*”Bullshit.”* He yanked it up. *”Who’s this?”*
*”Your coworker’s wife. Sent to me by mistake.”*
*”Then why’s it saved? You’re cheating!”*
*”You deaf? I *told* you!”* His face twisted. *”Yeah, I’m seeing someone. And it’s *your* fault. You were sweet when we met. Now look at you—fat, snooping. Just like my ex!”*
He hit her. Her skull cracked against the wall.
As black spots cleared, his furious eyes burned into her. *”Never touch my laptop again!”*
Then—pain. Stabbing, twisting. She doubled over.
*”Disgusting,”* Alex muttered, walking off.
The pain ebbed. She grabbed her hospital bag (always packed—midwife’s orders) and limped out.
A neighbour helped, called an ambulance. *”Your husband’s fetching your things. Lucky—such a caring man…”*
Emily froze as Alex knelt, tenderly asking how she felt.
Two hours later, in delivery, a voice cut through the fog: *”Boy. Premature.”*
*My boy. Alive. Only mine.*
She was safe in the ward. He couldn’t follow.
*Mum was right. They’re all the same. I forgot. If they hit once, they’ll do it again.*
Four days later, discharged, she returned for her things.
*”Where’s the baby?”* Alex demanded.
*”In NICU. Can I get my stuff?”*
He stepped aside. In the bathroom—someone else’s robe. On the washer—foreign makeup.
*”Nothing to say?”* he sneered.
*”I’m leaving.”*
*”Good. Don’t expect child support. You’ll regret this.”*
She fled to a shelter.
Lying onAnd as she held her son for the first time, Emily whispered to him, “We’ll be alright—just you and me now.”
