“What the hell are you doing in my laptop?” William loomed over Emily. She had never seen him like this before.
Emily came home from school and could already smell the stale alcohol in the hallway. Loud snores echoed from the bedroom. Her father was drunk again, just as she’d expected. She walked straight into the kitchen.
Her mother stood at the sink, peeling potatoes. Hearing footsteps, she turned. Emily’s sharp eyes caught the red, swollen cheek instantly.
“Mum, let’s leave him. How much longer can we take this? He’s going to kill you one day,” Emily spat, her voice trembling with fury.
“And go where? Who would take us in? We can’t afford a place on our own. Don’t worry—he won’t kill me. He’s a coward. Only brave enough to raise his fists at me.”
The next morning, Emily woke to strange sounds. She crept into the kitchen and saw her father at the stove, tipping his head back as he drank straight from the kettle’s spout. She watched, mesmerised, as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. The gurgling noise of water rushing down his throat filled the silence. *Choke, please just choke*, she thought with hatred.
But he didn’t. He set the kettle down, grunted in satisfaction, shot her a bleary-eyed glare, and shuffled off to the bathroom.
A shudder ran through Emily at the thought of her mother refilling that kettle without rinsing it first—filthy with his spit and the stench of alcohol. She snatched it up and scrubbed it clean, swearing to herself she’d never trust the water in it again.
During the Christmas holidays, Emily’s class took a trip to London. When she returned, her mother was in hospital.
“Was it him?” she demanded, staring at the bandages wrapped around her mother’s head.
“Don’t be silly. I slipped—there was black ice.”
But Emily knew she was lying.
Years of beatings had left her mother with high blood pressure. Six months later, she suffered a stroke and died. At the wake, her father wept drunken tears, one moment mourning his “darling Sarah,” the next cursing her name.
He warned Emily she was just like her mother, swore if she ever tried to leave him, he’d kill her too. She waited, counting the days until she finished school. She skipped the prom, quietly collected her certificate the next day, and while her father was at work, packed her things and ran.
He’d given her money for groceries—she’d pocketed some of it. Sometimes she even stole from his wallet while he slept. It wasn’t much, but enough to survive awhile. She had plans: find work, study part-time, get far away.
She wasn’t afraid he’d come after her. The local constable and neighbours all knew him for a drunk—no one would help track her down. She moved to Manchester, rented a shabby but cheap flat on the outskirts, and got a job at Chicken Cottage. The perks helped—free meals, help with her medical certificate.
She enrolled in college for accounting, and when Chicken Cottage found out, they put her on the till.
Boys tried to flirt. “They’re all sweet at first, then they start drinking, or cheating. I don’t know which is worse. Don’t trust their sweet words, love. I was pretty once too. Your father didn’t drink when we met. We were in love. What happened? The devil got hold of him,” her mother used to say.
Emily remembered, ignored their advances. She’d seen enough of her parents’ lives.
Her mother had always shopped on payday—stocked up on pasta, sugar, tinned goods, anything that would last. Her father drank his wages, but at least there was food, even if it was plain. Now Emily did the same.
She struggled down the street, arms aching under the weight of groceries. A man, eyes glued to his phone, barrelled into her.
“Sorry,” he said, finally looking up.
Emily almost snapped—*watch where you’re going*—but caught the warmth in his smile and faltered.
“My fault,” she murmured.
He offered to help carry her bags. She hesitated, then handed one over. No one with a smile like that could be bad. They exchanged names. William carried it all the way to her building, though she didn’t let him upstairs.
The next day, he turned up at Chicken Cottage. Claimed it was a coincidence, but she knew better. They started seeing each other.
William confessed he was divorced, had a little girl he adored. He’d left his ex the house, crashed with a mate. Said he’d married young and dumb.
“We just… couldn’t stand each other in the end. Days would pass without us speaking.”
He talked about his daughter constantly. Emily decided anyone who loved a child that much was safe. A month later, he asked her to move in.
“Let’s get a decent place, closer to town. Easier together, isn’t it?”
She agreed, floating on hope. A real family, at last. They rented a one-bed flat, toasted their new life quietly. She didn’t think too far ahead—marriage, forever—but William did. He talked about kids, how they’d have two—a boy and a girl. Emily let herself believe it.
He paid the first two months’ rent upfront. The third, he looked sheepish.
“Sorry, love. My daughter’s birthday—spent too much on her present, and the maintenance…”
How could she refuse? She paid without hesitation. Then came excuses every month—daughter was ill, had to help his parents—until the rent was always her burden. But they were a family, unofficially.
When she realised she was pregnant, she rushed to tell him. He didn’t sweep her up, spin her around like in films—just gave a stiff nod.
“I thought you’d be happy,” she whispered.
“Just surprised. No, I am happy.” He hugged her, kissed her.
Relief flooded her. She floated again, humming as she tidied. But weeks passed with no proposal. Then came morning sickness. The sight, the smell of food turned her stomach. William had to cook.
“My ex never had this. Maybe something’s wrong with you,” he snapped once.
The word *ex* stung. What was she, then?
“It’s different for everyone. It’ll pass,” she lied, swallowing the hurt.
It did pass—replaced by ravenous hunger. She ate everything, gained weight. None of her clothes fit. One day, William noticed a new dress.
“We’ve no money, and you’re buying clothes?”
“I need something to wear. Or did you blow it all on another present for your daughter?”
“She’s my *child*. Yes, I’ll buy her what she needs. You knew that when you moved in. She comes first.” His voice rose.
“And me? Where does our baby rank? Maybe you don’t even want it?”
“I didn’t think you’d be like this. I thought we understood each other.”
“We? You talked. I agreed because I loved you. If she matters more, there won’t *be* a baby—”
The slap silenced her. Her ears rang. She saw his lips moving, heard nothing. Felt her cheek swell under her palm. Hot tears spilled—hurt, despair.
“I’m sorry. I lost control. Emily, does it hurt?” His voice filtered back.
He knelt, tried to pull her hand away.
*He hit me. He actually hit me. Dad at least was drunk—William doesn’t even drink.*
He sat her on the sofa, stayed on his knees, begging forgiveness. Then she saw—tears in his eyes. He buried his face in her lap, sobbed. Pity flickered in her. She touched his hair. He looked up, hopeful. She forced a smile, ignoring the throbbing in her face.
“Promise you won’t—”
He kissed her before she could finish.
“Never again. I swear. Do you believe me? I love you…”
And she forgave. Her fault, really. Why had she threatened the baby? She’d never do it—just spoke in anger. And he’d lashed out in anger too…
William was sweet again, tender. She relaxed. He loved her. They’d have a child. It wouldn’t be like her parents. He wasn’t like her father—her father never apologised. She made excuses for William.
As her due date neared, she opened his laptop one day, searching for cheap prams. Babies needed so much. The prices disheartened her. Second-hand would do. Too soon, maybe—but no point regretting it now. They’d manage. They loved each other.
She was about to close the laptop when her fingers brushed a folder. A photo flashed up—a pretty, young girl, laughing, arms full of autumn leaves. Emily clicked again—the same girl, now gazing at the camera.
Who was she? His ex? No, she’d be older. This girl was barely twenty. Recent, too. Maybe just a downloaded image? She grasped for explanations,She closed the folder and stepped away from the laptop, knowing deep down that nothing would ever be the same again.
