Lena couldn’t settle. Little Emily had dozed off in her arms, yet she couldn’t tear herself away from the window. An hour had passed, and she was still staring into the courtyard.
A couple of hours ago, her beloved husband, Anthony, had come home from work. Lena had been in the kitchen, but he never joined her. When she finally stepped into the living room, she found him packing his things.
“Where are you going?” she asked, bewildered.
“I’m leaving. For the woman I love.”
“Anthony, you’re joking, right? Did something happen at work? Is this a business trip?”
“Why won’t you get it? I’m sick of you. All you think about is Emily—you don’t notice me anymore, you don’t even bother to look after yourself.”
“Don’t shout—you’ll wake Emily.”
“There! That’s all you care about. Your husband is walking out, and you—”
“A real man wouldn’t abandon his wife and child,” Lena muttered, retreating to her daughter’s room.
She knew his temper. If she pressed the argument now, it would explode into a row. Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to let him see. Scooping Emily from her cot, she fled to the kitchen—Anthony wouldn’t follow, not when there was nothing of his to take.
Through the window, she watched him climb into the car and drive off. He didn’t even glance back. But Lena? She couldn’t move. Maybe she hoped his car would reappear, wheels screeching, with Anthony laughing it all off as a stupid joke. But nothing.
Sleep didn’t come that night. There was no one to call, no one to share her grief with. Her mum had long stopped caring—she’d been thrilled when Lena married, then promptly forgot about her. To Laura, there’d only ever been one child: Lena’s younger brother. As for friends? They were just fellow mums, probably asleep by now. And what could they do, anyway?
She finally dozed at dawn. A call to Anthony went straight to voicemail, followed by a text: *Stop bothering me.*
Emily’s fussing snapped her back. No time for self-pity. He was gone—fine. She had her daughter to care for. Time to figure things out.
A peek at her purse and bank balance left her horrified. Even if the landlady gave her five days’ grace before the benefits came in, she’d still be short. And groceries? Forget freelancing—Anthony had taken his laptop.
Two weeks’ paid rent left. Two weeks to sort something out. Fast.
But after ringing every contact, reality bit: no one would hire a single mum with a toddler. Even mopping floors required someone to mind Emily for an hour or two. No one could. A cheaper flat? They were already in the least expensive one. Only option: crawl back to her parents. But she’d lagged behind in the marriage race—her brother had wed young, cramming his family of four (plus twins) into Mum’s two-bed. Five people already; six with her and Emily? Impossible.
She informed the landlady she’d leave when the rent ran out. A bedsit? She’d checked—dodgy neighbours, the lot. Texts begging Anthony for child support went unread. Blocked, probably.
Five days left. Packing kept her busy—modest belongings, but better than stewing. Then, a knock.
Opening the door, she froze. Margaret—her mother-in-law—stood there.
*What fresh nightmare is this?* she thought, stepping aside.
Their relationship had always been… polite. The kind where smiles mask loathing. At their first meeting, Margaret made her disapproval clear—Anthony could’ve done better. Lena had insisted they’d never live together. No way they’d get along.
Visits were pure comedy: *“Lena, dear, do you even own a duster?”* Meals she cooked? *“Fit for pigs.”* Pregnancy softened Margaret a tad, but when Emily arrived, she’d snorted, *“She’s not our blood. He ought to get a paternity test.”* Only at six months did Emily’s resemblance to Anthony earn her grudging cuddles.
Anthony had pleaded patience: *“Mum raised me alone—she’s protective.”* Lena never asked for help, though she’d have welcomed it.
And now? Here Margaret stood—post-abandonment. Probably here to gloat. But Lena was past caring.
“Right, pack your things,” Margaret barked. “You and Emily shan’t stay here.”
“Margaret, I don’t understand—”
“No need. You’re coming with me.”
“To *yours*?”
“Where else? Your mother’s, with that circus of hers?”
Lena blinked. “You *know*?”
“Of course. Wish I’d known sooner. That oaf of mine only just confessed. I’ve a three-bed. Plenty of space.”
No choice. In for a penny…
Margaret’s house loomed intimidating at first. Then she showed them their room. Once Emily was settled, Lena ventured to the kitchen.
“Lena,” Margaret sighed, “we’ve never been close. But try to understand—and forgive me, if you can.”
“You only wanted the best for him.”
“Best? Pah!” Margaret scoffed. “I was selfish. Today, he called—told me everything. Forgive me for raising such a son. His father left when he was three months old. *He* knew how hard it is for a single mother. Yet the wretch repeated history. Stay as long as you need.”
Lena never imagined Margaret would side with her. Words failed her—only tears plopped onto the table.
“None of that,” Margaret chided.
“Gratitude,” Lena managed.
“Save it. I’m atoning. We’ll manage. Roof over our heads. When you find work, I’ll mind Emily.”
From then, they were thick as thieves. Oh, Margaret’s sharp edges still surfaced, but she’d catch herself—offering advice gently, not with barbs.
Today, Emily turned one. Mum and Granny decked the room with balloons. A fragrant apple pie sat proudly on the table.
Spotting the balloons, Emily toddled toward them—then plopped down, deciding one step was effort enough.
“Lena, look—her first steps!” Margaret beamed.
As they sat down, the doorbell rang. Margaret answered—and froze. Anthony stood there, some girl in tow.
“Hi, Mum,” he said breezily, stepping inside.
“Hello, son. To what do we owe this?”
“Can’t I just visit?”
“Five months, not a word. Something’s up.”
“Mum, rents are extortionate. Angela and I thought we’d crash here.”
“*Angela*? And who’s this?”
“Mum, come on—”
“No room. I’ve tenants.”
“Tenants? Since when?”
“None of your business. Watch your tone.”
Anthony barged in, spotting Lena and Emily at the festive table. Balloons everywhere.
“Son, you’re unwelcome. We’re busy.”
“What’s *she* doing here?”
“Your *wife*, legally. Divorce finalises tomorrow—not that you’ll show. Today’s your daughter’s birthday. Forgotten?”
“Thought we were already divorced. And *my* daughter? Prove it.”
“You’d know if you bothered visiting. Lena and Emily live here. Traitors don’t. Doubt paternity? Go ahead, waste money on a test. Now *leave*.”
“Mum, if I walk out now, it’s for good.”
Margaret just pointed at the door.
Later, with Emily asleep, Lena approached her.
“Margaret… should I go? He’s your son.”
“Lena, yes—he’s my blood. But you don’t treat a child like that. Wives come and go—children don’t. He *knew* our struggles. No forgiveness till he learns.”
Four years later…
“Lena, how long will you hide this beau of yours?”
Lena flushed. She hadn’t realised Margaret had noticed.
“Oh, stop blushing. Bring him round!”
“You’re sure?”
“As long as he treats you and Emily right.”
Margaret attended Lena and David’s wedding. She approved—responsible, clearly smitten with Lena, kind to Emily.
“Don’t think I’ll stop helping with Emily,” Margaret warned at the reception.
“Mum, I’d never dream it. She adores you.”
When Lena and David had a son, Margaret claimed him as her grandson too. No one argued—Lena saw her as mum now, closer than her own.
Anthony? Married Angelica. They moved away. Through distant relatives, Margaret heard he was fine. Her son had hurt her, but he was still her son. She’d keep watch.
But now? She had a daughter. And two grandkids. For now—Years later, as she rocked her grandchildren to sleep in the same chair where she’d once held Anthony, Margaret smiled—certain that love, not blood, had built the family she’d always dreamed of.
