“Take the kid if you want, I don’t care. I can’t stand the sight of him. Just give me some money,” said Vicky.
Emily had an elongated face with big, slightly bulging brown eyes, large teeth, and a heavy chin. But her hair—thick, dark, and curling in heavy waves—was her one redeeming feature. When she pinned it up, it made a lush chignon, but that only drew more attention to her face. So she always wore it loose.
Her figure wasn’t much better, as if clumsily shaped by an unskilled hand. At least clothes could hide that. But her face…
Sometimes, men on the street would call after her—*Hey love, fancy a chat?*—but the moment she turned, they’d stammer excuses and hurry off.
*Why’d an ugly girl get hair like that?* her jealous classmates would sigh.
Emily would’ve traded it in a heartbeat for thin, dull locks if it meant even a slightly prettier face.
She had no friends. But there was one boy—he sat a few desks over, sometimes asking to copy her homework or for answers during tests. She was top of the class.
One day, he asked her to the cinema. Over the moon, she went. After the film, they walked home chatting. He kept glancing over his shoulder.
*Who are you looking for? Ashamed to be seen with me?* she asked bluntly.
He flushed.
Outside her flat, he kissed her awkwardly—just as laughter erupted from around the corner. His mates had bet him he wouldn’t kiss the ugly girl.
*What’d they promise you?* Emily shouted before running inside.
After that, she ignored him. No more answers. No more favors.
*Don’t fret, there’s plenty of blokes out there. I got married, and so will you,* her equally plain mother reassured her.
Emily graduated with top marks, studied economics at university, and earned first-class honors. Still, she envied her prettier classmates—the ones who partied, married, even had kids while studying.
Her father, a well-connected solicitor, landed her a job at a prestigious firm.
Colleagues rushed home to husbands and sniffly kids; Emily stayed late, finishing their work. She had nowhere else to be. They loved her for it. Management trusted her—*dependable, precise, never misses a deadline*.
Grateful coworkers tried setting her up with their husbands’ divorced friends—men who’d lost their homes to ex-wives and were tired of flatshares. They’d have settled for reliable. But Emily? She wanted love. She wept at night, cursing fate for making her ugly.
Then her father died. Two years later, her mother followed. Late marriage, only child. Now Emily was truly alone.
Time slipped by. The age where having a healthy child became unlikely crept closer.
A colleague suggested a holiday. *Our CEO had the same problem,* she whispered. *Strapping bloke, but infertile. His wife wanted kids but wouldn’t leave—big house, fancy cars, status. Doctors* hinted *a beach holiday might help.*
They went to Spain. She slept with a handsome waiter after checking his blood type—*just in case*. Got her baby.
*How d’you know about the CEO?* Emily whispered.
*Doesn’t matter. Point is—holidays are full of lonely men, married or not. Pick a looker, improve the breed.*
*Like a pedigree pup?* Emily scoffed.
*Exactly. Here, you’d risk a angry wife. There? Everyone’s divorced. No strings.*
Skeptical but desperate, Emily booked a trip.
One evening, strolling the promenade, she met a handsome man—tall, broad, perfect. She feigned a twisted ankle. He played the gentleman, helped her to a café, they talked.
She didn’t mince words: *I want a child. Just that.*
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t run. Just studied her—and understood.
She returned tanned, rested, and—weeks later—pregnant. Nine months on, a beautiful girl arrived.
The midwife, no stranger to women like Emily, didn’t judge. No joyful notes, no grateful shouts under the window. Just formula, nappies, and her personal number: *Call if you need me.*
They became friends. Emily named the baby Victoria.
She spoiled her rotten, pouring all her unused love into the girl. Gorgeous, spoiled, selfish—Victoria took after her father in every way but the hair.
Boys flocked to her. Schoolwork? Neglected. By sixth form, she’d fallen for a biker. Rode off with him nightly. No scolding or pleading changed her mind. At least she graduated.
Exhausted by rows, Emily came home one day to a note: *Don’t look for me. Gone to London with Jake. He proposed.*
What could she do? Call the police? Victoria was eighteen. Gone by choice.
Emily buried herself in work.
Over a year later, the midwife—now a dear friend—called. They barely spoke these days.
No small talk. *A young mum just refused her newborn. Name, address… it’s Victoria.*
*God,* Emily choked out.
*Don’t cry. Get here before she bolts. Convince her to take the baby properly. If not, adopting him’ll be harder. You* will *take him, yes? Thought so. Maybe she’ll come round. Baby’s beautiful—tiny health hiccups, but fixable.*
Emily sprinted to the hospital.
Victoria looked worse than a stray cat. She listened coolly to Emily’s plea.
*Take him if you want. Just give me money.*
Emily handed over her savings. Met them at the hospital with flowers. Hoped Victoria would change.
She didn’t. No interest in the baby. No breastfeeding. Wouldn’t even help name him.
*Call him whatever,* she said—then vanished three days later.
Emily named him George, after that holiday fling. Took leave, hired a nanny. The director, valuing her, let her work remotely. Money was tight, but kids grow fast.
She loved George madly—but didn’t spoil him. Not like Victoria. He was calm, bright, called her *Mum*.
When he was older, she explained: *I’m your gran. Your mum’s far away, but she’ll visit.*
*Why doesn’t she call?* he asked once.
So Emily wrote “her” letters—full of empty promises. He stopped believing. No envelopes? *Odd.*
Years passed. Then, a letter from America. Her hands shook.
Victoria wrote: *Married now. Big house. Husband’s older—two girls from his first marriage. Wants a son.* Emily’s heart seized. *This* was her nightmare.
She gulped water, steadied herself, kept reading.
*Can’t have kids. When he heard about George, he wanted him. Best schools here…* No asking how he was. *Coming soon.*
Emily forgot how to breathe.
George found her on the sofa, letter nearby. *Mum wrote again?* he smirked.
*She’s coming. To take you.* Emily wept.
*Should I call an ambulance? Your pills?* he fretted. *Gran, I’m not going. She never wanted me—I don’t want her.*
It didn’t calm her. Victoria was unpredictable.
Two weeks later, another letter: *Leaving my husband. Need money for the divorce. Send me my share.*
Emily knew. Sell the big central flat, buy a smaller one, send the rest.
She sold up fast. Two months later, they moved to a new-build on the outskirts. Cramped but quiet—woods outside, motorway lights glittering at night.
George started a new school. Emily demanded Victoria sign away all rights before sending the money. Her friend’s advice—*stop the blackmail*.
Still, fear lingered. Only when George turned eighteen would she relax.
Victoria never wrote again. Emily hoped she was happy, alive. But she felt nothing—no mother’s intuition.
Years softened Emily’s face, her wrinkles gentler now. Looking back, she regretted nothing. No great love, but George filled her heart.
*Just let me live long enough to see him settled,* she prayed.
Raising kids? Tricky. Care—don’t spoil. Above all, *do no harm*.
