She shouldn’t know.
Emma stood outside the old block of flats, fingers frozen over the intercom. The crumpled note in her coat pocket held an address she’d dug up through mutual friends. Twelve years… Twelve whole years since she’d left her newborn son behind.
*What are you even doing?* she whispered to herself. *You think they’ll welcome you with open arms?*
But her feet were glued to the pavement. She couldn’t leave—couldn’t step forward either. Memories of that awful day flooded back—her, a naive twenty-two-year-old, letting emotions steer her into mistakes she’d regret forever.
Her ex-husband, James, had been a walking red flag. Charming, witty, handsome—and utterly unreliable. After the wedding, she learned his two loves were drinking and gambling. The flat her parents had gifted them for the marriage? Lost at the bookies within six months.
*Don’t worry, love*, he’d say, kissing her forehead. *I’ll win it all back, you’ll see. Just a bit of bad luck.*
When Emma found out she was pregnant, James vanished for weeks. He returned bruised, unshaven, with a split lip.
*Had to settle a debt*, he muttered at her tears. *Listen, maybe… we don’t keep it? Not the right time.*
That was the final straw. She filed for divorce at seven months pregnant. Her parents backed her—on one condition: *No contact with James.*
The birth was rough. The boy was fragile; doctors fought for his life those first days. Then, just as he stabilised, a drunk James barged into the ward. Security dragged him out, but he came back sober the next day—flowers and toys in hand.
*Emma, forgive me*, he pleaded, on his knees in the hospital corridor. *I’ll change, I swear. Just give me a chance.*
Her mum, who’d always hated the marriage, lost it.
*Either you sign those papers and come with us, or we’re done!* she screamed. *Choose—us, or that drunk’s kid!*
Emma was twenty-two. Exhausted from childbirth, divorce, betrayal. No job, no home, no fight left. And she made the worst mistake of her life.
Remembering James’s mum, Margaret, taking the baby, Emma felt a lump rise in her throat. The woman had looked at her with such contempt, she’d wanted to vanish.
*Sign here*, Margaret said coldly, thrusting papers at her. *Then you’re free.*
The years that followed were a blur. She moved with her parents to Manchester, trained as an accountant, scraped by. Then her parents died in a car crash, leaving her a tiny flat and a mountain of debt. She clawed her way out, somehow.
Love never stuck. Twice, she tried—but the moment kids came up, she bolted. How could she explain to a man she’d abandoned her own son?
Then, six months ago, the diagnosis. The surgery went well, but the doctor was blunt:
*You won’t have children, Emma. I’m sorry.*
And that’s when she knew—she had to try. Even just to see him, to know he was okay.
The front door slammed. A lanky teen in a hoodie stepped out. Emma froze. It was *him*—same hazel eyes, same stubborn chin. Not a baby. A twelve-year-old boy.
*You waiting for someone?* he asked, holding the door.
*I—yeah. No, I mean—* she stammered.
He shrugged and walked off. She stood there, staring after him, numb.
*Oi, Liam!* someone shouted from the playground. *Hurry up, we’re starting!*
*Liam.* That was his name. She hadn’t even known that.
Emma turned to leave—then stopped. *No. Not like this.*
She buzzed the intercom. A familiar voice crackled: *Who’s there?*
*Margaret? It’s… Emma. Can I come up?*
A pause. Then the door clicked open.
The flat hadn’t changed. Same wallpaper, same smell—vanilla and fresh bread. Margaret had aged but stood tall.
*Why are you here?* No niceties.
*I—I wanted to know how he is. Liam.*
*How d’you know his name?*
*Just saw him outside. His friends called him.*
Margaret smirked. *Right. Kitchen, then. Since you’re here.*
Over tea, the story spilled out. James never changed. Drinking, gambling, debts. Two years ago, they found him dead in an alley—heart attack, or worse.
*Raised him myself*, Margaret said. *Small pension, but we manage. Liam’s brilliant—top of his class, swim team. Coach says he’s got potential.*
*Does he… know about me?*
*Knows his mum died in childbirth. And don’t you dare tell him different!* Margaret’s voice turned sharp. *You made your choice.*
*I know. I won’t wreck his life. Just… needed to see he’s okay.*
*And if he wasn’t?* Margaret leaned in. *You’d swoop in as the hero?*
Emma had no answer.
*I had cancer*, she blurted. *They took everything. No more kids. So I thought…*
*Now you remember the son you left?* Margaret finished. *No, love. Doesn’t work like that.*
*Can I help? Money?*
*We could use it, sure. But not from you. We’ve always managed.*
The front door banged. *Nan, I’m starving!* Liam yelled.
*Wash up, dinner’s ready*, Margaret called back, then lowered her voice: *Go. And don’t come back.*
Emma stood. Liam appeared in the doorway—flushed, messy-haired.
*Oh, we’ve got company?*
*Just an old friend. Leaving now*, Margaret said.
*Hi*, Liam nodded politely, heading to the sink.
Emma watched him. He was happy. A loving nan, friends, hobbies. He didn’t know the truth—maybe that was best.
At the door, Margaret shoved a slip of paper into her hand. *Bank details. If your conscience bites, send what you can. Anonymously. And stay away.*
Emma nodded and left. Outside, she glanced up at the lit kitchen window, shadows moving behind the curtain.
Maybe she didn’t deserve to be called his mum. But she’d help him—from afar, quietly.
On the Tube home, she realised some mistakes can’t be fixed. You just learn to live with them. Maybe her monthly transfers would help Liam chase his dreams. It was more than she deserved.
The flat was dark. She flicked the light on, hung up her coat.
*I’m sorry, son*, she whispered. *Forgive me, if you can.*
Upstairs, Margaret set the table, thinking some secrets should stay buried. A boy didn’t need a mother who turned up after twelve years. He needed stability. And she’d make sure he had it.
*Nan, who was that?* Liam asked through a mouthful of mash.
*Just someone I knew from work.*
*Why’d she look so sad?*
Margaret sighed. *Everyone’s got troubles, love. Eat up before it’s cold.*
And life went on. Differently for everyone, but it went on.
