Emma trudged home, exhausted and drained. In one hand, she carried her handbag, in the other—a plastic bag of groceries picked up on the way. Her legs wobbled beneath her. She wanted to collapse right there on the pavement and never move again. But at home, Max was waiting—her son. The only purpose left in her life. Without him, she’d have given up long ago.
Some people are born with silver spoons in their mouths—their paths smooth, their fortunes bright. Others, like Emma, seem born for endless hardship. In Year 10, at a classmate’s birthday party, she’d met a boy two years older. He seemed so mature, so confident—untouchable by rules or doubts. She fell for him hard.
Emma wasn’t stunning, but she was pretty in that way all young girls are—soft grey-blue eyes, straight chestnut hair, a slender figure with just the right curves.
In January, her mother was hospitalised with pneumonia. The flat became Emma’s domain—hers and the boy’s. And then it happened—the same story as countless inexperienced girls at seventeen. She’d believed his sweet words, his promises of love whispered so easily.
When Emma realised she was pregnant, she ran straight to him.
“Who says it’s mine? Look at me. I’m no father. Find some other fool,” he spat before vanishing from her life as suddenly as he’d appeared.
Who could she turn to? Who would listen? Time slipped by, and Emma couldn’t bring herself to tell her mother.
Then spring came. Emma stood before the mirror, struggling to button her jeans over her widening waist. Her blouse strained at the bust.
“You’ve put on weight,” her mother’s voice came from behind. Emma startled. Her mother turned her sharply, gasped, and pressed a hand to her throat.
“Whose is it? How far along? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Shouting, insults, tears—a storm of emotion before they finally collapsed together on the sofa, clinging and weeping. By then, it was too late for any other choice.
Emma finished her GCSEs but didn’t go on to college. In late September, she gave birth to a sweet-faced boy whose features echoed the carefree boy she’d once loved.
When her son was older, her mother arranged a job for Emma at the local council office. She hated it—always complaints, threats, demands. Her head spun. For extra pay, she cleaned the offices at night, scrubbing floors and scuffed corridors. Money was tight—school uniforms, nursery fees—but Max never felt the lack.
Max grew quiet, well-behaved, no trouble to his mum or gran. Emma denied herself everything to give him what he needed.
Then Max started secondary school, and her mother fell ill. Eight months later, she was gone. Emma took on another cleaning job—a nearby office. Washing floors was easy, but the windows, the post-refurbishment mess—she came home dead on her feet.
Then puberty hit Max like a lorry. He grew prickly, withdrawn—sullen when she asked about school. She knew she needed to keep a closer eye. A boy could slip into trouble so easily—drugs, gangs. But she came home late, too drained for more than a quick dinner and a half-hearted “How was school?”
Lately, scrapes and bruises appeared on Max’s face. “Fell in PE,” he muttered whenever she asked.
Then she saw him with a girl—dressed in an oversized hoodie, baggy trousers, pink-streaked hair, a nose ring. Maybe she was sweet—just eccentric. But Emma’s stomach knotted.
She tried talking to Max. He snapped back, locked himself in his room. What could she do? Forbid him? Scold him? No—that would only push him away.
Tonight, as she trudged home, her legs ached. Through the spring leaves, she searched for the glow of their flat’s windows. The dark squares told her—Max wasn’t home.
She climbed the stairs like a weary cart horse. The shopping bag handles cut into her fingers. She barely had time to step aside when a blur shot past—Ben, Max’s friend.
“Ben? What’s the rush?”
The boy skidded to a stop. Hesitated. Then dashed back up.
“Mrs. Dawson—” Ben panted. “Max isn’t home? Then he’s with them.”
“With who? Where?”
“I overheard some lads. Tasha—Max’s girlfriend—dared him to jump between the roofs. Said if he did it, he really loved her. They’re filming it. I tried to warn him, but—”
Emma’s fingers loosened. The bag crashed down, milk bursting open, spilling white rivers down the steps.
A door opened. A neighbour—James—stepped out.
“What happened?” He gathered the scattered groceries.
Emma’s breath hitched. “Ben—my son—he said Max is on the roof of the high-rise. They want him to jump to the next building. To film it.”
James shoved the shopping into her arms. “Go home. I’ll handle this.”
She staggered back inside. Filled a bucket. Scrubbed the steps mechanically.
“Taking up cleaning, love?” A neighbour smirked.
Emma barely heard her. At home, she paced, wringing her hands.
Then—the doorbell.
Max stood there, hood pulled low. James beside him.
“You’re alive,” Emma whispered.
“Brought him back in one piece,” James said gruffly. “Think next time, lad. Love makes idiots of us all, but not like this.”
Emma pulled Max close. James sighed.
“Be here tomorrow at five. Sports gear. We’re turning that energy into something useful.”
“Where? Why?” Emma’s voice wavered.
“I’ll teach him to defend himself—against fools and peer pressure alike.”
Later, Max ate hungrily while Emma watched, aching with love and fear.
Things slowly settled. Max trained with James. Carried her shopping. Talked to her again.
One day, Max grinned. “James says you’re pretty. Just dress too frumpy.”
Emma flushed. “Ashhamed of me?”
“Nah. But I think he fancies you.”
She laughed—started wearing a touch of mascara, brighter blouses.
Then, on the stairs, James asked her to the cinema.
“All three of us,” he added quickly.
At home, she noticed fresh grazes on Max’s hands.
“Fighting?”
Max squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mum. James taught me how to handle myself.”
The worst had passed. Storms don’t last forever.
Love, after all, comes to those who wait.
