He must never know.
Emily stood outside the old block of flats, her finger hovering over the buzzer. In her coat pocket was a crumpled bit of paper with the 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. “Do you really think they’ll welcome you with open arms?”
But her feet were glued to the pavement. She couldn’t walk away—yet she couldn’t bring herself to go in either. Memories of that awful day flooded back—her twenty-two-year-old self, overwhelmed and making the worst mistake of her life.
Her ex-husband, James, had been the classic example of the wrong man. Charming, handsome, quick-witted—and utterly irresponsible. After the wedding, she quickly learned his two great loves were drinking and gambling. The flat her parents had gifted them as a wedding present? He’d lost it in six months.
“Don’t worry, love,” he’d murmur, kissing the top of her head. “I’ll win it all back. Just a bit of bad luck, that’s all.”
When Emily found out she was pregnant, James vanished for three weeks. He came back bruised, unshaven, with a split lip.
“Had to settle a debt,” he muttered when she cried. “Listen, maybe… maybe we shouldn’t keep it? Not the right time.”
That was the final straw. Emily filed for divorce at seven months pregnant. Her parents supported her—on one condition: no contact with James.
The birth was rough. The boy was tiny, weak—doctors fought for his life those first few days. Then, just as he stabilized, a drunk James burst into the hospital room.
Security dragged him out, but he returned the next day—sober, with flowers and teddy bears.
“Emily, please,” he begged, dropping to his knees in the hospital corridor. “I’ll change, I swear. Just give me another chance.”
Her mother, who’d always hated the marriage, lost it.
“Either you give up that baby and move with us to another city, or we wash our hands of you!” she’d shouted. “Choose—us or that drunk’s bastard!”
Emily was twenty-two. Exhausted from the birth, the divorce, the betrayal. No job, no home, no fight left in her. And so she made the worst decision of her life.
Remembering how James’s mother, Margaret, had taken the baby away, Emily felt her throat tighten. The woman had looked at her with such disgust she’d wanted to sink through the floor.
“Sign here,” Margaret had said coldly, shoving the papers at her. “Then you’re free.”
The years that followed, Emily tried to forget. Moved with her parents to Manchester, trained as an accountant, got a job. Then her parents died in a car crash, leaving her a small flat and a pile of debt. She scraped by however she could.
Love never worked out. Twice she’d tried—but the moment talk turned to children, she ran. How could she explain to a man that she’d abandoned her own son?
Then, six months ago, the diagnosis. The surgery went well, but the doctor was blunt:
“You won’t be able to have children, Emily. I’m sorry.”
And that’s when she knew—she had to try. At least see him, just once, to know he was alright.
The front door banged open, and a lanky teenage boy in a football jacket stepped out. Emily froze. It was him—those same brown eyes, that same stubborn chin. Not a baby anymore, but a twelve-year-old.
“You waiting for someone?” he asked, holding the door.
“I—yes. No, I mean—” she stammered.
The boy shrugged and walked off. Emily just stood there, unable to move.
“Oi, Jake!” someone yelled from the playground. “Hurry up or we’re starting without you!”
Jake. His name was Jake. She hadn’t even known that.
Emily turned to leave, then stopped. No. She couldn’t. She had to try.
She pressed the buzzer. A familiar voice crackled through:
“Who is it?”
“Margaret? It’s… it’s Emily. Can I come up?”
A pause. Then the lock clicked.
The flat looked the same. Same wallpaper, same smell—a mix of lavender biscuits and liniment. Margaret had aged but held herself tall.
“Why are you here?” she asked, no pleasantries.
“I… I wanted to know how he is. Jake.”
“How do you know his name?”
“Just saw him. His friends called him.”
Margaret smirked. “Right. Kitchen then. Since you’re here.”
Over tea, she learned everything. James never changed. Drank, gambled, got into debt. Two years ago, they found him dead in an alley—heart failure or foul play, no one knew.
“I raised the boy alone,” Margaret said. “Pension’s tight, but we manage. Jake’s a good lad—does well in school, swims for the local club. Coach says he’s got talent.”
“Does he… know anything about me?”
“Knows his mother died in childbirth. And don’t you dare tell him otherwise,” Margaret snapped. “You made your choice twelve years ago.”
“I know. I won’t wreck anything. Just… needed to see he was okay.”
“And what if he wasn’t?” Margaret eyed her sharply. “Would you swoop in as the hero?”
Emily had no answer.
“I had cancer,” she blurted. “They took everything. No more children. And I thought—”
“Thought you’d remember the son you left?” Margaret finished. “No, love. Doesn’t work like that.”
“Can I help? Money?”
“Money’s always welcome. But not from you. We’ll manage.”
The front door slammed. Jake was back.
“Nan, I’m starving!” he called.
“Wash up, tea’s nearly ready,” Margaret said, then lowered her voice. “Now go. And don’t come back.”
Emily stood. Jake appeared in the doorway—flushed from outside, hair messy.
“Oh, we got company?”
“Just an old friend,” Margaret said. “She’s leaving.”
“Alright,” Jake nodded politely, heading to the sink.
Emily watched him and knew—he was happy. A loving nan, friends, a future. He didn’t need the truth. Maybe it was better this way.
At the door, Margaret shoved a slip of paper at her.
“Bank details. If your conscience bothers you, send whatever. Anonymously. And stay away.”
Emily nodded and left. Outside, she looked back at the lit kitchen window, shadows moving behind the curtains.
Maybe she’d never be his mother. But she’d help him—from afar, quietly.
On the Tube home, she thought about mistakes you can’t undo. Only live with. Maybe her monthly transfers would help Jake get a good education, chase his dreams. It was more than she deserved.
The flat was dark when she got back. She flicked the light on, hung up her coat, and whispered into the silence:
“I’m sorry, son. If you can… forgive me.”
Meanwhile, in the old block of flats, Margaret set the table, thinking some secrets were best kept. A boy didn’t need a mother who turned up after twelve years. He needed stability, certainty. And she’d make sure he had it.
“Nan, who was that lady?” Jake asked through a mouthful of shepherd’s pie.
“Just someone I knew from years back.”
“Why’d she look so sad?”
Margaret sighed. “Everyone’s got their troubles, love. Eat up before it’s cold.”
And life went on. Differently for everyone—but it went on.
