“You’re a monster, Mum! Women like you shouldn’t have children!”
Vera had barely started her studies at university when she met James one night at a club in London. He was handsome, well-off, and his parents were away on a year-long business trip abroad. She fell head over heels for him and soon moved into his flat.
They lived lavishly, thanks to his parents’ allowance. Every night was either clubbing or hosting wild parties at home. At first, Vera loved it. But before she knew it, she had piled up debts, missed lectures, and failed her winter exams. She was on the brink of being expelled.
Vera swore to turn things around and retake the tests. She buried herself in books, locking herself in the bathroom when James had friends over. Somehow, she passed the resits. But she pleaded with James to settle down—he was in his final year, after all.
“Come on, love,” he laughed carelessly. “You only live once. Youth doesn’t last. When else are we supposed to have fun if not now?”
Too ashamed to admit to her mother that she was living unwed with a man, Vera lied during phone calls, saying they’d married in a registry office and would hold a proper wedding when his parents returned.
One day, during a lecture, Vera felt faint. Her head spun, and waves of nausea hit her. She checked her calendar with growing dread—she must be pregnant. A test confirmed it.
The baby was still early, and James urged her to terminate. They fought bitterly, and he stormed out, vanishing for two days. Vera wept, sick with worry. When he finally returned, he wasn’t alone—a drunk blonde clung to his arm, barely standing. Exhausted and raw, Vera snapped, shouting at him to send the girl away.
“She’s staying. If you don’t like it, *you* can leave, you mad cow!” he snarled—then struck her across the face.
She grabbed her coat and fled. She walked all the way to her old dorm, cheeks streaked with mascara, face swollen. The matron took pity and let her in.
The next day, James begged forgiveness, swore he’d never raise a hand to her again. For the baby’s sake, she believed him.
Somehow, she scraped through her first year. Too terrified to go home—what would her mother say?—but terrified, too, to stay in London. James’ parents would return soon, and there she’d be, visibly pregnant, a wreck.
When his parents finally came back, his father took one look at Vera—provincial, barely into her second year—and made his disgust plain. He offered her money to disappear and leave their son alone.
“Be realistic. What kind of father would he be? All he cares about is partying. And who’s to say it’s even his? Take the money. Go home. It’s best for everyone.”
Humiliation burned through her. James stayed silent. Pride made her refuse the money—though she’d regret it later—and she left for her mother’s.
Her mother took one look at her swollen belly and sneered.
“Where’s your husband, then? Or was that a lie too? Got your fun and threw you out, did he? At least tell me he gave you money.” She blocked the doorway.
“Mum, how can you—? I don’t want his money.”
“Then why come here? We could barely feed ourselves before. I thought you’d landed a rich Londoner, living the high life. Instead, you turn up knocked up. Where do you expect us to fit? Four of us in this shoebox?”
“Four?” Vera whispered, confused.
“While you were galivanting, *I* met someone. What? I’m not dead yet. Raised you alone—never had time for myself. Now I do. He’s younger. I won’t have him gawping at you.”
“Where am I supposed to go? I’m due soon.”
“Back to your *husband*. He got you into this—let him provide.”
Her mother’s eyes were cold. They’d never been close, but now Vera might as well have been a stranger.
She picked up her bag and left. On a park bench, she sobbed. Where could she go? Not even her own mother wanted her. For a moment, she thought of stepping into traffic—but the baby kicked, as if pleading. She couldn’t do it.
“Vera?”
A voice broke through. Blinking through tears, she saw a familiar face.
“Sandra! We were at school together. What’s wrong?” The girl sat beside her, then noticed the bump. “You’re pregnant?”
The story tumbled out.
“Come home with me,” Sandra said firmly. “Mum and Dad are at the cottage till autumn. You can stay. We’ll figure something out.”
Vera had no choice. Her legs shook with exhaustion; hunger gnawed at her.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Sandra said, leading her inside.
Vera collapsed onto the sofa. Sandra bustled to the kitchen.
“I’ll get you fed. I’m training as a nurse—hospital work on breaks. Heard you were in London?”
“*Was*,” Vera murmured, shutting her eyes.
——
Two days later, Sandra came home excited. An elderly stroke patient at her ward needed a live-in carer. The daughter—flashy, indifferent—refused to take her.
“You’d have a roof. She’s sweet, just mute. I’ll help. Please, Vera—it’s this or the streets.”
Terrified but desperate, Vera agreed.
The daughter scrutinized her.
“Pregnant? You’ll manage?”
Sandra cut in. “She will. I’ll help. She’s got nowhere else.”
“Fine. No wages, just board. Her pension covers expenses—don’t skim it. Ring me only if she’s dying.” She tossed a card and left.
The old woman—Mrs. Edith—watched Vera’s belly with watery eyes.
“I’ll manage,” Vera said firmly.
And she did. Edith was quiet, often tearful. Vera spoon-fed her, wiped her face, whispered her own sorrows. A month later, she went into labour.
Sandra took over while Vera delivered a daughter—Lily.
Juggling a baby and Edith was gruelling—until Vera noticed Lily calmed to the old woman’s murmurs. Slowly, Edith became her helper.
Time passed. Lily learned to stand; Edith weakened. Then, one morning, Vera found her gone—peacefully, in sleep.
The daughter swooped in for the funeral. “Pack up. The flat’s being sold.”
“But—where will we go?”
“Not my problem.”
Rifling through papers, the daughter screeched—Edith had left the flat to Vera.
“Over my dead body! You scheming—”
Sandra stepped in. “The will’s legal. Neighbors will vouch—you never visited. Vera cared for her. Courts won’t throw out a mother and child.”
And they didn’t. Vera stayed. Lily started nursery; Vera took clerical work, odd jobs as a carer. Just as life steadied—her mother arrived, weeping.
“I had surgery. Sold my flat to pay. I’ve nowhere else—”
Vera relented. Blood was blood.
——
One sunny afternoon, Vera, Lily, and Sandra strolled toward the park. Halfway, Vera remembered her phone.
“Wait here—Mum might need me.”
At the door, she heard her mother’s laugh—then:
“Oh, she’s out… Nearly saved enough…? No, I’m fine—just taping my stomach for the act…”
Vera froze. *An act.*
“Mum!”
Her mother spun, phone dropping.
“You *lied*? No surgery? You’re *renting* your flat—for some man’s debts?” Vera trembled. “After throwing me out pregnant? You’re a *monster*. Women like you shouldn’t have children!”
“I—it’s not—”
“Be gone by the time I’m back.” She slammed the door.
Sandra read her face. “What happened?”
Vera sobbed out the truth.
“What will you do?”
“I can’t forget her cruelty. But… she’s still my mum.”
Sandra sighed. “We don’t choose family. Mine died young. I’d forgive anything to have her back.”
Dread filled Vera as they returned—but the flat was empty. Relief and guilt warred.
Hate breeds hate. If a mother won’t love her child, what love can she expect in return?
Her mother went home. The lover left when her money dried up. Years later, when illness struck, Vera cared for her until the end.
