– Lydia Whitmore, how could you let this happen? – the neighbour, Margaret Holloway, shrieked in the dimly lit hallway of their shared council flat, waving her hands wildly. – You’re her mother! How could you stand by and watch your daughter fall apart like this?
– Keep your voice down! – Lydia hissed, glancing over her shoulder. – You’ll wake the whole building!
– I don’t care! Everyone should know what kind of mother you are! Emily hasn’t left her room in three months, barely eats a thing, and you act like everything’s fine!
Lydia pressed her lips into a tight line and stormed into her room, slamming the door behind her. Margaret lingered in the corridor before finally retreating with an indignant huff.
The room was stuffy and silent. Emily lay on the bed, turned toward the wall, pretending to sleep. Lydia marched to the window and flung it open—chilly autumn air rushed in, fluttering the curtains.
– Emily, get up. It’s time for lunch, – she murmured.
Her daughter didn’t move. Lydia sat on the edge of the bed.
– I know you’re awake. Let’s talk.
– What’s there to talk about? – Emily muttered, still facing the wall. – It’s over.
– Over or not, life goes on. We need to make a decision.
Emily whipped around. Her face was pale, eyes swollen from crying.
– What decision, Mum? What? He’s marrying that Sophie from uni next week! And I sat there like an idiot, waiting for him to graduate!
– Darling, why torture yourself like this? – Lydia stroked her daughter’s hair. – If it wasn’t meant to be, it wasn’t. You’ll find someone else.
– Someone else? – Emily sat up, staring blankly. – Mum, you don’t get it. I—
She faltered, turning away again.
– What, love? Tell me.
– Nothing. It just hurts, that’s all.
Lydia sighed and stood.
– Fine, rest for now. But you’re eating dinner tonight. You’re wasting away.
She left to cook. Emily stayed motionless, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Something ached in her stomach. She rested a hand there, feeling the faintest swell beneath her thin nightdress.
– What do we do now? – she whispered.
Pots clattered in the kitchen. The smell of onions and potatoes filled the air. Emily’s stomach churned, as it had for weeks.
That evening, Aunt Clara arrived—Lydia’s younger sister, a nurse at St. Thomas’s, the only medically trained person in the family.
– So, Lydia, how’s our patient? – she asked, shrugging off her coat.
– Still in bed, still refusing food. She’s breaking my heart.
– Have you taken her to a doctor?
– She won’t even get up!
Clara stepped into Emily’s room.
– Hello, love. How are we feeling?
– Fine.
– Fine, my foot. Sit up, let me have a look.
Reluctantly, Emily obeyed. Clara studied her face, then took her wrist to check her pulse.
– When did you last eat properly?
– Can’t remember.
– And your last period?
Emily stiffened.
– Dunno.
– You don’t know? Think.
– …Months ago. Maybe ten weeks.
Clara frowned.
– Emily, stand up. We’re going to the loo.
– Why?
– Just come.
Emily wobbled as she stood. Her vision blurred.
– Oh—
– What’s wrong?
– Head’s spinning.
Clara steadied her, leading her to the bathroom and shutting the door.
– Undress.
– Aunt Clara—
– Just do it.
After a brief, clinical inspection, Clara exhaled.
– Get dressed.
Back in the room, Clara folded her arms.
– Emily, be honest. Did you and that boy…?
Emily flushed crimson.
– What?
– You know what I’m asking. Were you intimate?
She nodded.
– He said he knew what he was doing. That he’d be careful.
– Right. Emily… you’re pregnant.
The words hung like a sentence. Emily sat frozen, uncomprehending.
– …What?
– Three months along, at least.
Emily burst into tears. Clara held her close.
– Hush now. Crying won’t help.
– What do I do? – she sobbed. – He’s marrying her! And I—
– First, we confirm it. Hospital tomorrow. Then we’ll see.
– Mum can’t know.
– Not yet.
Clara left. Emily sat awake until dawn, thoughts spinning—memories of James, his promises, the way he’d whispered he’d marry her after graduation.
At the hospital, the doctor confirmed it. Fourteen weeks.
– What now? – Clara asked outside.
– I don’t know.
– You need to tell him. He might change his mind.
– He won’t. He loves her.
– How do you know?
– I’ve seen them together. The way he looks at her… it’s real.
– Then it’s your choice. Raise the baby alone, or…
– Or?
– There are ways to end it.
Emily shuddered.
– That’s a sin.
– Sin or not, life’s hard. Could you manage alone?
The bus ride home was silent. Outside, dead leaves swirled. Inside Emily, life grew—unwanted, unplanned.
At home, Lydia noticed her daughter’s distress.
– What’s wrong? Where were you?
– Doctor’s, – Clara said. – She’s anaemic. Needs treatment.
– I knew it. She’s pale as a ghost.
Emily retreated to bed. Lydia lingered, uneasy.
– Clara… what’s really going on?
– Just what I said. Anaemia.
– You’re lying.
– Why would I lie? Feed her properly, give her iron.
That night, her best friend Lucy visited.
– You’ve been hiding for months. What’s going on?
– Nothing. Just ill.
– Bollocks. Tell me.
– …What if a girl’s in trouble? Like, really big trouble?
– What kind?
– Like… if she were pregnant. And the bloke left her.
Lucy’s eyes widened.
– Emily—
– Just asking. What would you do?
– Tell my parents. Or him.
– Even if he’s marrying someone else?
– Especially then. Make him face it.
The next day, Emily went to James’s university. She waited outside.
He frowned when he saw her.
– Emily? What are you doing here?
– We need to talk.
– About what?
She led him to a nearby park.
– James… I’m pregnant.
He paled.
– What?
– It’s yours.
– That’s impossible! I was careful—
– Not careful enough.
He paced, running a hand through his hair.
– Are you sure?
– Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.
– …What do you want from me?
– Just thought you should know.
– And now what?
– Maybe don’t marry Sophie?
He turned sharply.
– I love her. Properly. Not like us.
– You loved me.
– Different. This is real.
Tears burned her throat.
– So you’ll still marry her?
– Yes.
– And the baby?
– Maybe… don’t keep it. You’re young—
Emily stood.
– Right.
– Wait!
She walked away without looking back.
At home, she wept until her throat was raw.
Clara returned that evening.
– Did you tell him?
– Yes.
– And?
– He chose her. Said I shouldn’t keep it.
– Bloody coward.
– I can’t do this alone.
– Then decide. But it’s dangerous.
– You know a doctor?
– I do. It’s expensive, though.
– How much?
– Five hundred quid.
Emily shuddered—her wedding savings. Irony.
– I’ll think about it.
The next morning, she’d made her choice.
– I’ll do it.
At the hospital, they lied—appendix removal. Lydia fretted, packing food, but the nurses sent her away.
The procedure was quick. Emily stared at the ceiling, hollow. It was over.
She cried silently. For the child, for love lost, for foolish hope.
A week later, discharged, Lydia fussed over her. Emily let herself be cared for, though the emptiness remained.
Soon, she heard—James married Sophie. A grand wedding. A happy couple.
– Gorgeous pair, – Lucy said. – He looked so inYears later, when her own children laughed in the garden, Emily sometimes wondered if the ghost of that first child stood among them, watching silently, unseen.
