Margaret stood by the kitchen window, watching her husband Edward tinker with something in the garage. In her hand was a crumpled note she’d found in Emily’s jeans pocket. The words blurred through her tears, but she forced herself to read them again: “Meet me at ten by the front gate. Gran’s dead asleep—she won’t hear a thing. Love you. Yours, Jake.”
“Lord, why me?” Margaret whispered, crushing the note tighter.
Emily had come into their lives six months ago. The daughter of Edward’s sister Clara, who’d spent her life bouncing between bad relationships, drinking too much, and finally dying in a car crash. At sixteen, the girl had no one left. Of course, they couldn’t turn her away.
“Meg, love, she’s family,” Edward had pleaded. “Where else is she supposed to go? Foster care?”
So Margaret had agreed. She and Edward had never had children of their own—doctors had said it wouldn’t happen. Maybe this was life’s late gift to them?
How wrong she’d been.
At first, it was lovely. Emily seemed sweet, grateful. Helped around the house, did well in school, called them Auntie Meg and Uncle Ed. Margaret doted on her—bought her nice clothes, signed her up for netball, even hired a tutor for her GCSEs.
“D’you see our clever girl?” she’d boast to the neighbours. “Straight A’s, she gets!”
But then things shifted. Emily grew sharp, snapping back. Came home later and later. Then last week, Margaret noticed money missing from the biscuit tin.
“Em, love, you didn’t take any cash from the kitchen, did you?” she’d asked carefully.
“What cash?” Emily hadn’t even looked up from her phone.
“The fifty quid I’d put aside for your new trainers.”
“Wasn’t me. Probably spent it yourselves and forgot.”
Margaret had stayed quiet, but the lie stung. She knew exactly how much was there—they lived on a tight pension, every pound counted.
Then came the sneaking out. Emily thought she was quiet, but Margaret slept lightly these days. Heard the floorboard creak, the front door clicking shut.
She’d tried talking to the girl. But every time, Emily brushed her off or stormed out.
And now this note. Who was this Jake? What were they doing out so late?
“Meg, where’s Emily?” Edward came in, wiping grease off his hands with a rag.
“Up in her room. Glued to that phone again.”
“Should we have a proper chat? Girl’s getting out of hand.”
“I’ve tried. She won’t even listen.”
Edward sat at the table and poured tea from the pot.
“What’s that in your hand?”
Margaret passed him the note. His brow furrowed.
“Where’d you find this?”
“In her jeans, when I was doing the wash.”
“Right, that’s it. We’re having this out.”
Just then, Emily slunk into the kitchen. Tall, slender, dark hair scraped back into a ponytail. Pretty, but with a hardness in her eyes.
“Oh, discussing me, are we?” She yanked open the fridge.
“Emily, sit down, please,” Margaret said quietly. “We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“This.” Edward held up the note.
For a second, panic flashed across Emily’s face. Then she shrugged.
“So? Private stuff.”
“Nothing’s private under our roof,” Edward said firmly. “We’re responsible for you.”
“Really?” Emily flopped into a chair, chin raised. “Thought you just took me in out of pity. Good old Auntie and Uncle, saving the poor orphan.”
“Emily!” Margaret gasped. “How could you? We love you like our own!”
“Love me?” Emily snorted. “Then why control everything? Why can’t I see my boyfriend?”
“Because you’re a child,” Edward cut in. “And we don’t know this lad.”
“Jake’s brilliant. Actually listens to me, unlike you.”
“How old is he?” Margaret asked.
A pause.
“Twenty-one.”
“What?!” Margaret nearly knocked over her tea. “You’re sixteen—he’s a grown man! That’s illegal, Emily!”
“It’s not illegal if I want it!” Emily shouted. “We love each other!”
“Love,” Edward muttered. “At your age, that’s not love. That’s naivety.”
“You don’t get it!” Emily jumped up. “You’re old! You never even had kids—what would you know?”
The words hit Margaret like a slap. She went pale, hand pressed to her chest.
“Em, that’s enough—” Edward started.
“Truth hurts, doesn’t it?” Emily spat. “I never asked you to take me in! Should’ve left me in care!”
“Then pack your things and go!” Edward roared. “If we’re so terrible!”
“Edward, don’t—” Margaret whispered.
“No, let her! Off to Jake’s, then!”
Emily glared. “Fine. I’ll pay you back every penny you’ve wasted on me. Jake’ll help.”
She slammed the door behind her. Margaret dissolved into tears.
“Ed, what have we done…”
“Nothing. She chose this.”
“But she’s a child. What’ll happen to her?”
Edward squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t know, love. Truly don’t.”
Upstairs, drawers slammed—Emily packing. Margaret longed to go up, but fear glued her to the spot.
An hour later, Emily stomped down with a duffel bag.
“Right. I’m off.”
“Emily, wait—” Margaret stood. “Let’s talk properly.”
“Nothing to say. You told me to leave.”
“That was the heat of the moment. We don’t want you to go.”
“Well, I do. Jake’s got a flat. I’ll stay there.”
“And school?” Edward said.
“I’ll sort it. Turn seventeen soon anyway.”
Margaret stepped closer. “Listen, love. I get it—you’re in love. But you barely know him. What if he’s using you?”
“He’s not!” Emily’s eyes flashed. “Only person who gets me. You just want me locked up.”
“We want you safe.”
“From what? Happiness?”
Emily headed for the door. Margaret followed.
“At least leave your number. So I know you’re alright.”
“Fine. But don’t ring every day.”
The door banged shut. Margaret watched from the window as Emily climbed into a car—some bloke in a leather jacket at the wheel.
“Well, that’s that,” Edward sighed. “Six months raising her, and not so much as a thank you.”
“Ed… maybe we were wrong? Should’ve handled it differently?”
“How? Let a sixteen-year-old move in with a grown man? Meg, wake up.”
Margaret nodded, but her heart ached. She’d grown so attached, dreamed of them being a proper family.
A week passed with no word. Margaret itched to call, but Edward stopped her.
“Give her space. She’ll come round.”
But the call never came. Instead, their neighbour Mrs. Wilkins dropped by.
“Margaret, dear, did you know your Emily’s dripping in gold? Bracelets, necklaces, rings. Where’s she getting that kind of money?”
Margaret frowned. “Jake, maybe?”
“Maybe. But word is, he’s not got a proper job. Runs with a rough crowd.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Flash cars, gold chains, no visible income.”
After she left, Margaret chewed her nails. Had Emily fallen in with criminals?
She dialled Emily’s number.
“Yeah?” A man’s voice.
“May I speak to Emily?”
“Who’s this?”
“Her aunt.”
“Hold on.”
A minute later, Emily came on. “What?”
“Love, it’s Auntie Meg. How are you?”
“Fine.”
“School going alright?”
“Mm.”
“Emily… this Jake. Where does he work?”
“Why?”
“Just curious.”
“He’s in business.”
“What business?”
“Look, I’m busy. Ring you later.”
The line went dead. Margaret turned to Edward.
“Something’s not right.”
“Her choice, Meg.”
But Margaret couldn’t let it go. She started spotting Emily around town—decked in gold, designer clothes, but… tired-looking.
One day, she bumped into Emily outside Boots, buying pills.
“Emily!”
The girl turned. Margaret gasped—pale, dark circles under her eyes.
“Auntie Meg…”
“You ill, love?”
“No. Just knackered.”
“From what? You’re not working.”
Emily looked away. “I am.”
“Where?”
“Café. Waitressing.”
“And school?”
“Switched to evenings.”
MargaretThat night, as Margaret tucked Emily into bed like she used to, smoothing the duvet over her thin shoulders, she wondered if love—real, messy, imperfect love—wasn’t just about opening your home, but knowing when to hold on tight and when to let go.
