“You’re a monster, Mum! People like you shouldn’t have children!”
After sixth form, Rebecca left her small provincial town for London to continue her studies. One night, she went clubbing with friends and met Steven—a handsome local lad whose parents were away for a year on an overseas assignment. She fell for him head over heels and soon moved into his flat.
They lived lavishly, thanks to his parents’ generous allowance. Nights blurred into one long party, hopping from clubs to raucous house gatherings. At first, Rebecca adored it. Then, before she knew it, she’d missed lectures, piled up debt, and failed her winter exams. She faced expulsion.
She promised to buckle down and resit the tests. Locked herself in the bathroom whenever Steven’s mates came over. By some miracle, she passed. Then she begged Steven to grow up—final year looming, degree on the line.
*”Relax, Becks. YOLO, innit? Youth doesn’t last. If not now, when?”* he drawled, grinning.
Too ashamed to admit she was shacking up unwed, she lied to her mum over the phone—claimed they’d had a quick registry office wedding, with a proper do planned once his parents returned.
Then, during a lecture, Rebecca felt dizzy, nauseous. She counted weeks in a panic—no. The test confirmed it.
Steven urged her to *”sort it out.”* Their first real row. He stormed off, vanished for days. She sobbed, paced, barely slept. When he finally returned, he wasn’t alone—some drunk blonde clung to him, swaying. Exhausted, Rebecca screamed at him to kick her out.
*”She’s not leaving. If you don’t like it, *you* sod off, you nutter!”* He slapped her—hard.
She grabbed her coat, ran to student halls. The porter took pity on her swollen cheek, smudged mascara, let her in.
Next day, Steven came begging—swore he’d never hit her again. For the baby’s sake, she believed him.
She scraped through first year. Too scared to go home. What would Mum say? But staying terrified her too—Steven’s parents due back soon, her belly growing, her face gaunt.
Then his parents arrived. Learning she was some provincial girl barely into second year, his father “had a chat.” Offered her a fat stack of cash to disappear.
*”Be honest, love—what kind of dad would he be? All he cares about is piss-ups. And who’s to say it’s even his? Take the money. Go home. It’s best.”*
Humiliated, Rebecca refused (though later, she wished she hadn’t). Steven stayed silent. She packed up, returned to Mum.
The second her mother saw the bump, she knew.
*”Where’s your *husband*, then?”* she sneered, blocking the doorway. *”Got your fun, did he? Ditch you once he got bored? At least tell me he gave you cash.”*
*”Mum, how can you—I don’t *want* his money—”*
*”Then why come crawling back? We barely scraped by *just us*. Thought you’d won the jackpot—marrying some posh London boy. Instead, you’re back here, knocked up. Where’s *this* lot supposed to fit, eh? Or do you reckon *four* of us can squeeze in here?”*
*”Four?”* Rebecca whispered.
*”While you were off gallivanting, *I* found someone. What? I’m not dead yet. Raised you alone—never had a life. Now I do. He’s younger. Don’t want him gawping at *you*.”*
*”Where am I supposed to go? I’m due soon—”*
*”Back to your *husband*. Whoever he is. He knocked you up—let *him* deal with it.”*
No softness in her eyes. Just coldness. Like speaking to a stranger.
Rebecca left. Sat on a park bench, wept. No one wanted her—not even her own mother. For a wild moment, she thought of stepping into traffic—but the baby kicked, as if pleading.
*”Rebecca?”* A girl stopped in front of her. Through tears, she barely recognised her.
*”It’s me—Sophie Cooper. From school? Why’re you—”* Then she saw the bump. *”Oh. Oh no.”*
The floodgates opened. Sophie listened, then squeezed her hand. *”Come to mine. Parents are at the holiday home till autumn. We’ll sort something.”*
No choice. Rebecca’s legs shook with exhaustion.
Sophie’s flat was warm. *”Make yourself comfy,”* she said, vanishing into the kitchen. *”I’m a care assistant at the hospital—med school next year. Heard you were at uni in London?”*
*”Was,”* Rebecca murmured, eyes closing.
Two days later, Sophie burst in, excited. *”This old dear on my ward—stroke left her bedbound, but sharp as a tack. Her daughter visited today. Refuses to take her home—says her husband won’t allow it. Three kids in a tiny flat. Asked if we knew anyone who’d be a live-in carer. Thought of you! She’ll see us at five.”*
*”Did you mention I’m *pregnant*?”*
*”No—but trust me, no one else wants the job. Just—wear a baggy jumper. She’ll take you.”*
*”Sophie, *how*? I can’t lift her, change nappies—”*
*”I’ll teach you. Baths aren’t daily. And I’ll help. It’s *something*, Rebecca. A roof. Food.”*
The daughter was a scowling woman in a tracksuit. *”You’re *pregnant*?”* she huffed. *”Can you handle it?”*
*”She can. I’ll help,”* Sophie cut in. *”Nowhere to live. Husband kicked her out.”*
*”Not my problem. But fine. No wages—just room and board. Mum’s pension covers basics. Don’t *think* about scamming her. And don’t call me unless she’s *dying*.”*
The old woman—Margaret—watched Rebecca’s belly with watery eyes.
*”I’ll manage,”* Rebecca lied.
And she did. For months, she spoon-fed Margaret, wiped her tears, bared her soul. When contractions hit, Sophie covered for her. Baby Alice arrived—tiny, perfect.
Somehow, Rebecca juggled a colicky newborn and a mute elderly woman. Until one day, leaving Alice in the pram by Margaret’s bed, she rushed to the kitchen—porridge boiling over. When she returned, Margaret was *humming*, Alice dozing peacefully.
A rhythm formed. Alice slept to Margaret’s garbled lullabies. Rebecca kept the flat spotless.
Then Margaret worsened. Died quietly in her sleep.
The daughter swooped in for the funeral, sneering. *”Pack your things. Flat’s going on the market.”*
*”Can’t I stay until—”*
*”Not my problem.”*
While clearing drawers, the daughter screeched—she’d found a will. The flat was Rebecca’s.
*”You *conned* her! I’ll sue! Probably *killed* her too—”*
Sophie arrived, calm. *”Margaret called a solicitor. Witnesses saw it. You *never* visited. Try evicting a single mum—see how that goes.”*
Rebecca kept the flat. Alice started nursery; Rebecca took a receptionist job, picked up care shifts.
Just as life steadied, her mother turned up—pale, trembling. *”Cancer,”* she wept. *”Sold my place for treatment. Let me stay?”*
Guilt won. Rebecca nursed her.
Then, one sunny afternoon, rushing back for a forgotten phone, Rebecca overheard:
*”She’s out… Yes, I miss you too… Almost saved enough… Pretending? Oh, *method acting*, darling. Stomach’s just padding—”*
*”MUM!”*
The woman spun, phone clutched.
*”You *lied*? No cancer? You’re *renting out* your flat—for *him*? After *throwing me out*?”* Rebecca’s voice cracked. *”You’re a *monster*. Women like you *shouldn’t* be mothers!”*
*”You’ve got it all wr—”*
*”Be *gone* when I’m back.”*
Outside, Sophie frowned at her tears. *”What happened?”*
*”No surgery. No sold flat. She came here to *save money*—for some *man*. All that *illness*—an *act*.”*
Sophie sighed. *”Parents… we don’t pick ’em. Mine died young. But…Yet when her mother fell truly ill years later, Rebecca bathed her fevered brow without a word—because hate, she’d learned, only starved the heart that carried it.
