The Awkward Age
Emma trudged home, exhausted and hollow. In one hand she clutched her handbag, in the other, a bag of groceries she’d picked up on the way. Her legs felt like lead, and she longed to collapse right there on the pavement. But at home, James was waiting—her son, the only thing keeping her going. Without him, she’d have given up on this miserable existence long ago.
Some people are born with silver spoons in their mouths—life comes easy. Others, like Emma, seem destined for hardship. Back in Year 11, at a classmate’s birthday party, she’d met a boy two years older. He seemed worldly, strong, unbound by rules. She fell hard and lost her head.
Emma wasn’t beautiful, but pleasant-looking, like most girls her age. Dark grey eyes, straight chestnut hair, full lips, a figure with just the right curves.
That January, her mother was hospitalised with pneumonia. The flat was hers—and his—for the taking. And in the way of naïve seventeen-year-olds, things happened. Sweet nothings, promises of love, all the usual lines.
When Emma realised she was pregnant, she ran straight to him.
*”What’s it got to do with me? Father material? Look at me. Find some other mug,”* he said—then vanished from her life as abruptly as he’d entered.
What now? Who could she turn to? Time dragged, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell her mum.
Spring arrived, and she dug out her lighter clothes. Standing before the mirror, she struggled to fasten her jeans over her thickening waist. Her blouse strained at the buttons.
*”You’ve put on weight,”* her mother said behind her. Emma startled. *”Let’s have a look—”* Her mother turned her, gasped, and pressed a hand to her throat.
*”Whose is it? How far along? Why didn’t you say anything?”*
She screamed, humiliated her, chased her sobbing daughter around the flat with a tea towel. Later, they sat together on the sofa, crying in each other’s arms. Too late for an abortion.
Emma sat her A-levels but didn’t go to uni. That September, she gave birth to a sweet-faced boy, his features hinting at his reckless, irresponsible father.
Once he was older, her mother pulled strings to get her a job at the council housing office. Emma hated it—endless complaints, threats, demands. Her head spun. For extra cash, she cleaned offices in the evenings, scrubbing floors scuffed by countless feet. James needed clothes, nursery fees.
He grew up quiet, well-behaved, no trouble. Emma denied herself everything so he’d never lack for love, care, or toys.
When he started school, her mother fell seriously ill. Eight months later, she was gone. Emma took on another cleaning job—floors, windows, post-renovation mess—coming home dead on her feet.
Then adolescence hit. James grew sullen, withdrawn. Brushed off questions about school, snapped at her. She knew she had to watch him—one wrong step, and drugs could beckon. But she came home late, barely managing a quick dinner before asking how his day was.
Lately, she’d noticed bruises on his arms, scrapes on his face. *”PE. Tripped,”* he muttered.
Then she saw him with a girl. Not just any girl—wild purple hair, a nose ring, an oversized black hoodie. Maybe she was nice. Just a style. But not all girls dressed like that.
Emma tried talking to him. He snarled, locked himself in his room. What to do? Maybe first love was like an illness—best weathered, not fought. But her heart ached. Alone all day, would he repeat her mistakes?
She stumbled home, trying to spot their flat’s light through the trees. Dark windows—James wasn’t home.
Emma dragged herself upstairs, head drooping like a beaten-down cart horse. The bag handles cut into her fingers. She barely had time to press against the wall as Ben, James’s mate, hurtled past.
*”Ben!”* she called. *”What’s the rush?”*
He skidded to a stop, hesitated, then bounded back up.
*”Aunt Em…”* He caught his breath. *”Thought I imagined—James isn’t home. Must be with them.”*
*”Spit it out! Where is he? Who’s ‘them’?”*
*”Heard some lads talking. His girl, Sarah, dared him—jump between the tower blocks’ roofs to prove he loves her. They’ll film it, post it online. I was going to warn him. But he’s not here. Saw him with them, I think.”* Ben turned. *”Gotta try and stop him.”*
*”Ben!”* she shouted, but the front door slammed below.
Her fingers loosened. The bag thudded down, groceries scattering. A milk carton burst, white rivulets trickling down the steps.
A neighbour’s door opened. A man stepped out, took in the mess, and approached.
*”You alright? Mugged?”* He began gathering the spilled items.
*”No. My son’s friend said he—God—said James went with some boys to the nine-storey’s roof. They’re egging him to jump to the next building. Filming it. I don’t know what to do.”* She started down, nearly slipping in the milk. He steadied her.
*”Stay here.”* He shoved the groceries into her hands. *”Wait at home.”*
She numbly carried the bags inside, filled a bucket, and mopped the steps.
*”Taken up cleaning, love? Pay well?”* a neighbour with a toy poodle asked.
Too worried to answer, Emma finished and returned home. At the window, she squinted through the trees at the distant rooftops, eyes aching.
Should she run there? What could she do? Call the police? What if they didn’t believe her? The neighbour would’ve said.
She paced, arms wrapped around herself, until her gaze landed on a small paper icon stuck to the fridge—her mother’s doing during her illness. The Virgin Mary’s eyes seemed to pierce her soul—accusing, pitying.
*”Help me. Stop them. Save my boy. I can’t lose him,”* she whispered frantically.
The doorbell nearly stopped her heart. On the step stood James, hood up, head down, flanked by the man from downstairs.
*”God, you’re safe,”* she breathed, swaying, gripping the doorframe.
*”All in one piece,”* the man said, nudging James forward. *”Made it in time. Ever think of your mum? Love’s one thing, but suicide? Get a hobby. Help her out—works three jobs.”*
She realised he was continuing a lecture started en route. She pulled James into a crushing hug.
*”Training tomorrow. Five o’clock. Sports gear,”* the man told James.
*”Training? Where?”* Emma shot him a wary look.
*”Kid’s got energy. Needs channeling. Teach him to defend himself—handle idiots.”*
*”Thank you. Fancy a cuppa?”*
*”Another time.”*
Once he left, she held James again.
*”I’m sorry, love. I failed you. No father—”*
*”Mum, don’t.”*
*”You’ve no one to talk to. My fault.”* Tears spilled.
*”I’m sorry too.”* His voice cracked.
*”It’s over. You’re safe. Go with him—seems decent.”*
*”His name’s Daniel,”* James mumbled.
*”Don’t just stand there. Hungry? I’ll fry up some potatoes. No? Cup of tea, then.”*
In the kitchen, the kettle hissed. Her eyes flicked to the icon. The Virgin’s gaze hadn’t changed.
*”Thank you,”* she whispered, pulling out bread and ham.
James washed up, wolfed down the sandwich while she watched, torn between relief and dread. *”This time it worked. But what next? Will Daniel teach him to fight back?”*
She lay awake, crept to his room later. Moonlight lit his face, one hand tucked under his cheek. She crossed him clumsily, shut the door softly.
James started training with Daniel. Met her after work, carried shopping, talked. Peace returned.
*”Mum, Daniel says you’re pretty. Just dress better. Buy a new dress, some shoes.”*
*”Ashamed of me?”* she flared.
*”No. But… think he fancies you. Asked about you.”*
So she listened. Wore nicer clothes to work, a touch of mascara.
*”You *are* pretty. Daniel says you look under thirty.”*
*”Daniel says, Daniel does,”* she thought, half-jealous, half-glad James had a mentor. *”Under thirty? They used to say twentyOne evening, as rain tapped gently against the window, Daniel knocked on the door with flowers in hand, and behind him, James grinned like he’d known all along how this story would end.
