Youre irresponsible, Mum. Go and have kids somewhere else.
Emma was barely seventeen when she rushed into marrying Tom. Shed just finished her A-levels, and within a month she was wearing a ring and her bump was already showingso quickly that the neighbours gossiped about her being up the duff, muttering disapprovingly behind lace curtains.
She had a daughter, called Sophie, and settled into Toms mums flat. Toms mother, Margaret, didnt even live thereher own place was just a couple of bus stops awaybut still felt it her duty to oversee every move the young couple made. The place was a huge, high-ceilinged three-bed with old furniture bought way back when, and Emma never could shake the feeling that she was just a guest who ended up staying for years by mistake.
Emma absolutely loved being a mum to Sophie. The endless nappies, babygros, sleepless nights, Sophies first tooth, her first wobbly steps, her first Mummythese things made something in Emmas heart ache with joy. But Sophie didnt just grow up with Emma. Margaret, her gran, came by almost every day, and then there was Aunt Linda, Toms big sister, who basically never left her little room at the end of the hall. Linda was five years older than Tom, always with her hair yanked back in a bun and a permanent sour face, as if something perpetually stank. Both Margaret and Linda were absolutely certain they always knew besthow to raise a child, how to cook a decent roast, how to separate whites and colours, how to keep your man.
Emma, why do you let Tom go out with his mates to the pub? Margaret would tut, pursing her lips. My Ron, rest his soul, always came straight home from work. Family first. Thats how it should be.
Emma stayed silentthere was no point arguing. Margaret shut down any debate with a single look. And then Linda would chime in:
You just make sure Sophies being brought up properly. Ive brought over some age-appropriate books. Kids today, so little discipline, it all comes down to their mothers, you know.
So Emma dutifully leafed through the books with Sophie, sent her off to museums with her gran, and arranged English tutoringthe kind Margaret insisted on. It all paid off. Sophie grew up clever and serious, with her nose in booksjust like Margaret at that age, the neighbours would say.
Tom, Emmas husband, was a quiet, unassuming bloke, working as an engineer at the local factory. He liked beer with his mates after work and watching the football. Emma loved him in that worn-in way that happens after ten years of sharing your lifeeven after all those arguments and silent treatments, when theres no more pretending left to do. Tom loved her back in his awkward, quiet wayhed bring up tea in bed or cook her a fry-up before she even woke up.
Margaret kept a close, chilly watch over her sonas if hed never really grown up. Tom, show a bit of backbone! You mooch about like a ghost. Your wife looks at you and doesnt know if shes married to a man or a schoolboy, shed sayright in front of Emma.
Tom would just drop his shoulders. And Emma would stroke his head in the dark, whispering, Dont listen to them. Youre wonderful. Youre the best, until he drifted off. Shed lie awake, staring up at the ceiling, wondering how it was she could love someone so deeply and still never quite defend him from his own mothernever quite bold enough, knowing it wasnt her flat, knowing she was really just a guest.
When Sophie was about thirteen, Margaret fell seriously ill. Pancreatic cancer, Emma heard. Margaret took it with her usual grim persistencejust pressed her lips tighter and went to the solicitor to write a will. She was, as she saw it, fair: her own central flat would go to Linda, and the three-bed, where Emma and Tom and Sophie lived, would go to Tom. No one left out. All very correct.
Then something happened no-one was braced for. Just three weeks after Margaret signed the will, Tom left the factory after work as usual, but he never came home. He was hit by a car crossing the roadsome young woman at the wheel, distracted, or so the police report would later say. Emma only found out when Linda rang, sobbing, her voice shaking:
Emma, Toms gone. There was an accident, a car, there was nothing the ambulance could do. You need to come to the mortuary to identify him.
Emma couldnt remember how she got there or how she stared at Toms face or how she signed those forms, only that she found herself on the bus home, staring blankly out the window. Sophie had stayed at her grans; Emma walked into an empty flat, sat on the sofa, and stayed there till morning.
Margaret only outlived her son by two months. The doctors said the end came quicklychemo didnt help, her body couldnt keep fighting. But Emma was convinced Margaret simply didnt want to carry on without Tom. For all her nitpicking and bossing, he was still her boyand when he died, something in Margaret broke. She faded so fast, shrinking into a quiet, withered figure lying in a hospital bed staring at nothing. Before she died, she summoned the solicitor again and rewrote her will. Now, the three-bed flat went to Sophie, her granddaughter.
Its for Sophie, she told Linda by her bedside, voice rough. And youll still have yours, just as I planned. Look out for Sophie. Dont let her go off the rails like her mother. Emmas a good sort, but shes weak. Sophie needs a firm hand.
Linda just noddedher face didnt flicker. She was, after all, her mothers daughter, for better or worse.
Suddenly Emma was alone in the flat, though technically it belonged to Sophiewho was still too young to inherit outright, so Emma was named guardian. The years after that blurred byEmma barely stopped for breath between working like mad and raising her girl by herself. She wanted Sophie to have everythingnice clothes, a decent phone, good tutoring. Emma never complained, not her style, just got on with it. And when Sophie made it on a scholarship to a respected university, Emma felt such pride and relief she actually cried. It was all worth itthe sacrifices, the penny-pinching, the long shifts. Sophie was smart and capable, with a bright future. Actually, she started doing translation jobs in her second yearher English was superb, and she had Margaret and Linda to thank for those early lessons.
Then, just as Emma finally felt she could breathe, she met David. It was pure chancea shopping bag spilled in the queue at Tesco, and he helped her pick it all up. They got talking. He worked across the road, was thirteen years older, had two grown-up kidsand a wife whod been in a wheelchair for five years after her stroke. David cared for her.
Im no hero, he said on their third date, when they sat on a park bench and he held her hand tightly in his. I just cant leave her, you know? Weve been together so long, she gave me two beautiful kids. But Id forgotten what it was like to hope for something, to look forward to something, to be happyuntil I met you.
Emma understood. She was thirty-eight, old enough to know you dont wait for fairy stories. You take what there is.
She didnt tell Sophie at first. Made up excusesworking late, popping out to a friends. Sophie was sharp, though. She noticed her mums lighter step, the new dress, the unfamiliar perfume. One night, as Emma pulled out a new outfit from the wardrobe, Sophie asked outright, her gaze unwavering:
Mum, is there someone? Youre looking after yourself, theres a new dress, new scent. Whats going on?
Emma blushed crimson and spilled everythingabout David, about his wife, how she really loved him.
Sophie listened, her face set steely and cold. When her mum finished, Sophies voice was icy in a way Emma had only ever heard from Margaret:
Mum, do you realise what youre saying? Youre in love with a married man. The same mum who drilled into me whats right and wrong is now telling me about sneaking around with someone elses husband. Do you see how that sounds?
Emma tried to explain, but Sophie cut her off.
I get it, Mum, Im not daft. Youre lonely; you want some warmth. But there are lines. A married man should be off-limits. Youre not a teenager anymore.
Emma was hurt and cried a bit, but put it down to Sophies youthful black-and-white thinking. Sophie lived in a world of right and wrong, good and badno shades of grey.
So Emma and David kept sneaking aboutmeeting at his mates cottage when he was away, or in a rented flat David got through a friend. Emma knew this wasnt the kind of love story you dream of when you’re young, but she wasnt twenty, and she cherished every minute she got.
I do wonder sometimes, David would say, lying next to her in the cramped flat, if Ive any right to thisto you, to happiness. I sit by her bed and I think, what am I doing loving someone else while shes still here? Its rotten, isnt it?
It is, Emma would admitshe didnt want to lie. But Im here, and Im not judging. Who am I to judge?
Youre wonderful, hed say, kissing her shoulder. The best thing thats happened to me. Im not going to leave you, you know. No matter what.
And Emma chose to believe him, because she needed toafter five years of grinding through life on her own, she needed to believe someone could say, Youre wonderful, and Im here for you.
When Emma realised she was pregnant, it was a shock. She didnt believe it at firstshe took three different tests. Then she went to the GP, had a blood test, and got the blunt confirmation: Youre pregnant, about six weeks. Heartbeats there. Everything looks fine. Emma walked out in a daze, sat on a bench outside the surgery, and crieda strange, tangled mix of fear, hope, and dread.
She struggled for days about how to tell David. What would he say? Be happy, be reluctant, panic? Or make excuses about his situationgrown-up kids, a wife to care for, not being ready for more? Emma knew David wouldnt walk outhe wasnt that kindbut she sensed hed be afraid. Afraid of the upheaval, afraid he just couldnt manage more change, afraid that everything hed builthis kids, his sick wifewould come crashing down.
But telling Sophiethat terrified Emma most. She delayed and delayed, waiting for that right moment that never came. At last she just blurted it out one evening at the kitchen table after Sophie got back from Lindas.
Sophie, theres something I need to tell you. Im pregnant.
Sophie froze, mug in her hand.
From the married bloke? she asked quietly.
Yes. From David, Emma said.
I knew it. Sophie gave a crooked, joyless grin. Mum, have you lost your mind? Youre thirty-eight, working two jobs, I just got my scholarship sorted, were finally just about all right, and you want another baby? By a man who cant even leave his disabled wife, whos not offering you anything?
Please, Sophie, dont be like this. Its my lifemy baby.
Im not stopping you, am I? Sophie stood up, face pale and eyes narrowed. But hear this, Mum. Im not having you breed and multiply in my flat. Got that? My flatGran left it to me, not you.
Emma felt the blood drain from her face. She stared at her daughterthe same girl shed raised on her own, taken to nursery, read to, sent to endless lessons and classes, scrimped for, pinched pennies for, all aloneand didnt recognise her.
Sophie, what are you saying? Emmas hands trembled as she braced herself on the table. This is our home. We built a life hereI raised you here, I
You only stayed because Dad was alive. After he died, Gran could have kicked you outshe only kept you here for me. This flat was always mine, Mum. Mine. I wont throw you out, Im not a monster. Youre my mum, youll always have a roof here. But youre not bringing married men, not bringing babies here. If you want a family, go to the father and ask him to put you up.
How can you say that? Emmas voice broke as the tears came. I had you young
Exactlyat seventeen, not thinking of the consequences. And now youre repeating it, nearly forty, this time with a man whose wife is an invalid. And if he bottles it? Youll be alone with a babyexcept this time youre thirty-eight, not seventeen, and things arent any easier. I wont help; Ive got my own life to sort.
Youre saying you wont help me? Emma stared at Sophie, the pain overtaking her. Sophie actually looked away, just for a second.
Youre my daughter, my only little girl. I thought we were a team, that wed be happymaybe even excited for a little brother or sister.
Excited? Sophie actually laughedbitterly. Mum, are you for real? Whos going to bring up this baby? You? While working two jobs? That baby will end up at nursery, and wholl be left keeping an eye out while you slog awayme? No, thanks. I wont support your irresponsibility. I wont tell you what to doyour body, your callbut dont talk to me about family. This is about your bloke, not about us. I wont fix your mistakes.
Youre just like Linda now, Emma breathed. And Margaret. All righteous, all strict. So what am I to you? The lodger you let stayjust about?
Mum, dont be dramatic, Sophie said, wincing. No one thinks youre a spare part. But you know I have my own life. I dont have to bend around your choices. I wont help, I wont childmind, and I wont share my flat. Youre a grown woman. Get David to support youhe is the father, after all.
He cant, Emma blurted out instantly, instantly regretting it.
There you go, Sophie said, giving a familiar, stony smile. You got tangled with a man who can offer nothingno family, no home, no real relationship. And you want me to babysit for a kid fathered by a married man while you keep sneaking out for your dates? No, Mum. Absolutely not.
Im not asking you to babysit, Emma whispered. Just for understanding and a bit of kindness. And that you wont throw me out.
Im not throwing you out, Sophie repeated. You’ll always have somewhere here. Just not with another child. If you go through with it, youll need to sort out your own place. Ill give you until the birththats fair. But after that, that baby doesnt live here. Im not letting my lifeand all I worked forbe wrecked by your choices.
Emma stood up slowly and shuffled off to her room. She closed the door and curled up on the bed, small as she could, like a child.
She felt something inside breaka tie she thought would never snap, even after a child grows up. It broke cleanly, leaving a black hole where everything fell awaymemories of Sophies first steps, her first word, the nights theyd watched cartoons together, the little arms hugging her neck and whispering, Mummy, I love you best in the whole world.
Im not a mistake, Emma whispered into her pillow, so weakly even she could barely hear herself. Im not a mistake. Im your mum.
But behind the wall, music was blastingSophie had turned the telly up full. Emma knew then: the conversation was finished, all said and done.
Lying in the darkness, she reached for her phone without really knowing why, dialled Davids number. He picked up after the second ringhe wasnt asleep; he was sitting by his wifes bed.
David, she said, voice flat and weary. Im pregnant. I need somewhere to live. Will you support usa flat, money, just so I can at least stop working for a year? Be honest.
She heard Davids sharp intake of breath. Then he started talking fast, stumbling, nervous like a schoolboy dodging blame.
Emma, come on I cant have this conversation now, you know my situation. My wifes ill, I take care of her, she needs medication and a carer, moneys tight. My kids help when they can, its tough these days. Id love to, but I cant just leave her. I couldnt afford to rent a place for youtheres just not enough, and you wouldnt be able to work either I just cant do it, Emma, not properly. I wont abandon you, Ill help, just, you know, the basics, what I can…
The basics, Emma repeated quietly. Understood.
Wait, Emma, lets meet and talkmaybe theres another way, look at our options
She hung up. Didnt say goodbye. Put the phone down and lay still, just listened to the low hum of the fridge and a dog barking somewhere far away. As dawn crept through the window, she got up, dressed, quietly grabbed her ID and NHS card, and left the flat, careful not to wake anyone. At the GPs, she waited her turn for nearly two hours, sat staring at the floor without a word. When the nursethe same one as beforeasked, So, do you want to go ahead with the pregnancy? Emma replied, her voice flat and even:
No, I want to book a termination.
The nurse sighed, shook her head, noted it down. Emma stepped out into the sharp, cold air and found herself crying on the steps, hiding her face, as women with bumps and pushchairs streamed past her, not even glancing her way.
