**A Sharp Turn**
Emma had never lived alone. First, she lived with her parents, then she got married, and two years later, she and her husband had a daughter, Sophie.
Even after her husband left, she and Sophie remained together for a while. But now, she was completely alone. She wandered through the empty flat, unsure of what to do or why she should even keep going. Her life had collapsed, and all that loomed ahead was lonely old age and oblivion.
She couldn’t understand what had gone wrong—what was wrong with *her*? She and Matthew had never fought seriously, just petty squabbles. She never nagged him, let him see his mates, kept the flat clean and cosy. There was always a pot of soup in the fridge, dinner ready on the stove.
Emma had stayed slim even after giving birth. She had never been curvy. When she was pregnant, her figure had filled out slightly—much to Matthew’s delight—but after she stopped breastfeeding, she returned to her usual size. But no one leaves over something like that. Everyone said she and Matthew were so well-suited.
Of course, Emma wasn’t blind. She noticed how much he had changed lately. He never stayed late at work, yet suddenly, he paid more attention to his appearance—carefully matching ties to shirts, getting a trendy haircut.
*”Why don’t you wear dresses?”* he asked one day.
*”I do, on special occasions,”* Emma replied, confused. He had never cared what she wore before.
*”You look pale today. Feeling unwell?”*
*”I always look like this. Why are you nitpicking?”* she snapped.
Once, she even put on makeup—blush and all—and wore it to work.
*”Wash it off. It doesn’t suit you,”* Matthew said when he got home.
*”Everyone at work complimented me all day,”* Emma muttered but obediently scrubbed her face clean.
*”I thought you’d start coming in looking glamorous every day,”* a colleague remarked the next morning, seeing her bare face.
*”Matthew didn’t like it.”*
*”He’s just worried you’ll drive him mad with jealousy,”* the colleague teased. Emma didn’t argue.
One evening, her old friend Hannah called, asking to meet at a café after work. Hannah was striking and vibrant, but that had never stopped their friendship, which stretched back to secondary school.
*”How do you stay so slim without dieting? I have to restrict everything, or I’d balloon overnight,”* Hannah sighed.
*”Oh, stop it. Men still turn their heads when you walk past,”* Emma laughed.
*”They’d look at you too if you gave them half a chance. You’ve got lovely legs—a crime to hide them under trousers. A knee-length pencil skirt would suit you, and you *must* cut your hair. Maybe go ginger? For God’s sake, do something. You look like a pensioner.”*
Emma knew Hannah wasn’t criticising her for no reason.
*”Hannah, what’s really going on? You’ve never spoken like this—”*
*”Forget what I’ve said before,”* Hannah cut in. *”Don’t look at me like that.”* She glanced away, silent for a moment. *”Sorry. I saw Matthew with some young thing—barely twenty, sweet-faced. The way he looked at her…”*
Emma squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.
*”Stop!”*
*”Emma, I didn’t mean to upset you. But you’ve been stuck in the same rut for years. Men have eyes. Your dreary look is enough to bore anyone to tears.”*
*”That’s not true!”* Emma stood and hurried out.
At home, she sat on the edge of the bathtub, staring blankly at the tiles.
*”Mum, Dad’s here,”* Sophie called through the door, knocking lightly.
Emma splashed water on her face and stepped out. Sophie retreated to her room, while Matthew sat at the kitchen table, hands folded like a dutiful schoolboy.
*”Sorry, I didn’t have time to make dinner. Went out with Hannah,”* she said guiltily.
*”I’m not hungry. So, you already know,”* he replied.
*”Know what?”* she asked, though she understood immediately. *Hannah hadn’t lied.*
*”I’m in love with someone else. I tried to resist, but I can’t help it. I know—she’s half my age, but I can’t live without her. I’m sorry. I’ll pack my things and go.”*
Emma didn’t stop him. Then Sophie betrayed her too. She began visiting Matthew often. Emma didn’t interfere—until Sophie started bringing back gifts. Matthew’s new girlfriend, Diana, showered her with trendy tops, short sparkly dresses, makeup, and half-used perfume.
*”Look what Diana gave me!”* Sophie gushed. *”Isn’t she amazing? Does it suit me?”*
*”You shouldn’t go there or take her gifts,”* Emma said firmly.
*”Why not?”*
*”Because she stole your father!”*
*”So what? She’s fun and young, unlike you… Dull and naggy. No wonder Dad left.”*
It got worse. Sophie picked up slang, dyed streaks of her hair pink and green, caked on makeup. Teachers wrote notes about her cheekiness and skipped classes.
Trying to reason with her was like stopping a train. Every warning was met with *”Diana says…”* or *”Diana thinks…”*
The name alone made Emma seethe. When she forbade Sophie from visiting, her daughter threatened to move in with Matthew instead.
*”So, I’m a bad mother? Diana’s better? Fine, go. Just wait till she has her own baby—you’ll be tossed out.”*
*”Seriously? I can live with Dad?”* Sophie asked coldly.
*”Yes. But he has to call and confirm it himself.”*
Matthew rang the next day.
*”Sophie says you want her to live with me,”* he began.
*”She forced my hand. I can’t handle her—she’s rude, wears too much makeup, skips school. All thanks to your Diana.”*
*”They get on well. You’re just bitter… She can stay with us.”*
And just like that, Sophie was gone. Emma was consumed by rage, unfairness, and self-pity. She barely ate, lost weight. Sophie only called to twist the knife: *”Diana took me to a concert…”*
When A-level results came, Sophie scored poorly—no chance at uni. She didn’t care anyway.
Then Matthew called: Sophie had left home, living with some boyfriend in a rented flat.
Emma froze.
*”And you just *let* her?”*
*”She’s an adult. *You* raised her. Diana’s pregnant—I’ve enough on my plate.”*
*”So, your own daughter doesn’t matter? *You* left us, and your Diana poisoned her mind!”*
A lifeline came when Hannah phoned.
*”What are you doing?”*
*”Hanging myself. My husband’s gone. Sophie chose *her* over me. I’ve got nothing left.”*
Hannah arrived with a bottle of Scotch. Emma was drunk after one glass, sobbing into her fist. Hannah interjected only with *”Prat,”* *”Twit,”* *”Nightmare…”*
By dawn, she stood abruptly.
*”Enough. First, we fix you—hair, nails, clothes. Then we find you a decent man.”*
*”Where?”* Emma slurred.
*”You’ll see.”*
After the makeover, Emma barely recognised herself—she looked ten years younger. Hannah dragged her to galleries and exhibits. Emma knew nothing about art, but it was thrilling. She kept trying Sophie’s number, but it was always switched off.
Then Sophie called.
*”Mum, can we stay with you for a fortnight? Just till we find a new place.”*
Emma didn’t ask questions.
*”Of course!”*
She deep-cleaned the flat, changed the sheets in Sophie’s unused room, cooked a feast. She braced for Sophie’s boyfriend—just having her back was enough.
When the doorbell rang, Emma beamed as she opened it.
Sophie stood there, hollow-eyed, clutching a bundle. Behind her loomed a lanky, long-haired guy.
Emma’s smile died. Sophie thrust the baby into her arms, kicked off her trainers, and vanished into her room. Emma gaped at the guy.
*”Hi,”* he mumbled.
*”Who—?”*
*”Boy,”* he said, nodding at the bundle. *”Rowan. Rowan James.”*
The boyfriend—Kieran—wolfed down everything she served, as if starved for weeks. Between bites, he explained the landlord kicked them out because of the baby, he’Emma sighed, holding Rowan close, realizing that life’s sharpest turns sometimes lead you right back where you’re needed most.
