You’re a monster, Mum! People like you shouldn’t have children!
After school, Emily left her quiet little town in Yorkshire and moved to London to study. One night, she went clubbing with friends and met Oliver—a handsome Londoner whose parents were abroad for a year on business. She fell madly in love and soon moved in with him.
Life was lavish—his parents sent money, and every night was either a club or a house party. At first, Emily loved it. But before she knew it, she’d racked up debts and missed lectures, failing her winter exams. She was on the verge of being kicked out.
She promised to turn things around and retake her modules. Locking herself in the bathroom when Oliver’s mates came over, she managed to scrape through. But she begged him to calm down—he was in his final year, exams looming.
“Come on, Em,” he’d laugh. “We’re only young once. When else are we meant to have fun?”
She was too ashamed to tell her mother she was living with a bloke unmarried. Every phone call was a lie—she claimed they’d tied the knot and were waiting for his parents’ return to celebrate properly.
Then one day, Emily felt dizzy in class. Nauseous. She couldn’t remember her cycle. Horror struck—she was pregnant. A test confirmed it.
Oliver begged her to terminate. They fought, screaming—he stormed out and didn’t return for days. When he did, he wasn’t alone. A drunk blonde clung to him, barely standing. Exhausted, Emily snapped, shouting at the girl to leave.
“She’s not going anywhere,” Oliver sneered. “If you don’t like it, *you* sod off.” Then he slapped her.
She grabbed her coat and fled to her dorm, bruised and weeping. The caretaker took pity and let her in.
The next day, Oliver came begging—swore he’d never raise a hand again. Emily believed him. For the baby’s sake.
Somehow, she scraped through her first year. Too afraid to go home—what would her mother say? But staying in London was worse. Oliver’s parents were due back any day, and she was showing.
When they returned, his father took one look at her and offered cash to disappear. “Use your head. What kind of father would he be? And who’s to say it’s even his? Take the money—go home.”
Humiliated, Emily refused. But later, she wished she hadn’t.
She packed up and returned to her mother.
The second her mum saw the bump, her face hardened. “Where’s your husband, then?” she spat, blocking the doorway. “Had your fun, did you? Did he at least give you money?”
“Mum, how can you—”
“And what am I meant to do with you? We could barely fit two in this flat. I thought you’d landed a proper London bloke. Instead, you turn up knocked up. Where exactly are *four* of us supposed to live?”
“Four?” Emily’s voice trembled.
“While you were off gallivanting, *I* found someone. What—am I not allowed happiness? I raised you alone. Now it’s *my* turn. He’s younger. I don’t want him eyeing you up.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” Emily whispered.
“Back to your man. If that’s what he is.”
No warmth. No pity. Just cold dismissal.
Emily left, collapsing onto a park bench in tears. No one wanted her—not even her own mother. She nearly stepped into traffic—until the baby kicked, as if pleading: *Don’t.*
“Emily?” A voice cut through her sobs.
She blinked up—through tears, she saw Sophie, an old schoolmate. Within minutes, the whole story spilled out.
“Stay with me,” Sophie insisted. “Parents are at the cottage till autumn. We’ll sort something.”
Grateful, Emily agreed.
Two days later, Sophie rushed home, buzzing. “There’s a job—a stroke patient, bedridden but sharp. Her daughter won’t take her in. Needs a live-in carer. I thought of you.”
Emily balked. “How can I—*pregnant*—care for her?”
“You’ll manage. I’ll help.”
The daughter, a brassy woman dripping in cheap sequins, barely glanced at Emily. “No pay. Just housing. Mum’s pension covers groceries. Don’t get ideas—the flat’s *mine* when she’s gone.”
The old woman—Margaret—lay still, eyes damp. Emily wiped her tears, fed her, whispered her own story.
A month later, Emily gave birth to Lily. Juggling a newborn and Margaret was chaos—until she noticed Lily calming at Margaret’s murmurs. Slowly, a rhythm formed.
Time passed. Lily learned to stand; Margaret faded. One night, she slipped away quietly.
The daughter returned for the funeral, then snapped, “Pack your things. The flat’s going up for sale.”
“Please—just until—”
“Not my problem.”
But then—a will. The flat was Emily’s. The daughter shrieked, threatened court. “You conned her! Probably killed her!”
Sophie stepped in. “Margaret called a solicitor. Witnesses saw *you* abandon her. No judge will throw out a mother and child.”
Emily stayed. Lily started nursery; Emily took a receptionist job, picking up shifts as a carer.
Just as life steadied, her mother appeared—weeping, claiming a surgery had bankrupted her. Emily, soft-hearted, took her in.
Then, one day, she forgot her phone. Returning, she heard her mum giggling into the line: “Oh, she’s out… Almost saved enough… Taping my stomach down… A *star* wasted on motherhood…”
Emily screamed. “You *lied*? No surgery? Just hoarding money for your *boyfriend*?”
Her mother stammered.
“Leave. Now.”
Outside, Sophie tried to soothe her. “She’s still your mum. Mine died young—I’d give anything—”
Emily wavered. But when she returned, her mother was gone.
Years later, when her mum fell ill, Emily cared for her—despite everything.
Hate breeds hate. If a mother won’t love her child, what love can she expect in return?
