“Give birth for me. You know I can’t have children…”
The first day of university began with a lecture. Eleanor had wandered the halls for ages before finding the right room. She’d barely taken a seat at the end of the front row when the professor marched in. He introduced himself and launched into the year’s expectations—the exam questions would come from lectures, not textbooks. Missing class meant scrambling for answers later.
Then the door swung open. A dazzling girl walked in, drawing giggles from the hall. The professor turned sharply.
“Are you here for the lecture? Name?”
“Charlotte Elizabeth Wainwright,” she answered breezily, unfazed.
“Very well, Charlotte. Don’t be late again. I don’t tolerate tardiness.” He scanned the room. “That applies to all of you. Find out what we covered from someone else. Now, where were we—”
Charlotte tiptoed to the front, heels clicking softly. Eleanor shifted aside.
“Hey. What’d he say? Threatening us already?”
“Shh—he’ll throw you out,” Eleanor hissed.
They met properly during the break. Charlie lived in Surrey, commuting daily—today, she’d misjudged the train. Eleanor, from Leeds, stayed in halls.
Charlie was vibrant, carefree, indifferent to grades. She couldn’t fathom Eleanor’s bookish devotion.
“Who cares if it’s a first or a third? Marry well—that’s the real degree,” Charlie said.
“I promised my mum I’d do well. She raised me alone—dropped out when she fell pregnant. My dad promised marriage, then vanished. I won’t let her down.”
“You’ll wither over those books. When do you *live*?”
“When I’ve got my degree,” Eleanor laughed.
Despite their differences, they became inseparable. Eleanor attended every lecture, even covering for Charlie’s absences. Charlie danced, dated, lived wildly. Some warned Eleanor she was being used.
“So what? Friendship’s never purely selfless. One always gives more.”
By fourth year, Charlie fell in love and abandoned studying entirely. Without Eleanor, she’d have been expelled. Then—Charlie got pregnant.
“Wanted to get rid of it quietly, but James found out. So—we’re marrying. You’ll be my witness.”
They had a raucous New Year’s wedding. By finals, Charlie gave birth, stumbling into exams exhausted. Lecturers pitied her with passing marks. Eleanor graduated with first-class honours, ready to return to Leeds.
“You’re mad! With that degree, London’s yours. James’s dad owns a firm—he’ll hire you. Your mum won’t mind. Earn, gain experience—you’ll be unstoppable. James has an unmarried friend… You *promised* to start living after uni!”
“And you dreamed of security. Now you’ve got a husband, a home, *a child*—that’s happiness!”
Eleanor stayed. James’s father hired her, and she excelled. Yet her personal life stalled.
They spoke often but met rarely—Charlie busy with motherhood, Eleanor working. Then, one call:
“Come over. *Now*.”
Eleanor rushed to her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, spotting Charlie’s red eyes.
“I’m pregnant,” Charlie said flatly.
“That’s *it*? I thought—Oh, congratulations!”
“Congratulations? Just got rid of nappies, ready to work—now *this*. It’s one maternity leave after another!”
“Didn’t you use protection?”
“I tried pills. James *found* them. Threw a fit. He’s an only child—wants a brood. Buying a bloody mansion. Never asks *me*.” Her voice turned sharp. “Does he have someone? Tell me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He works hard because he loves you.”
Charlie had another boy. And wept.
“Now he wants a girl. What if it’s *another* boy? I’m not a breeding machine!”
Between her job and his mother’s reluctance to help, Charlie was drowning. Eleanor visited less, not wanting to burden her.
Eventually, Eleanor married James’s friend, longing for a child of her own. But none came. Tests revealed the truth—she’d never conceive.
She grieved, then buried herself in work. Her husband refused adoption—then left her for another. She let him go without a fight. She’d married for convention, not love.
Meanwhile, Charlie and James moved to a lavish Surrey home. Visiting, Eleanor admired Charlie’s gardens, her mother now retired and helping full-time.
But in the nursery—blue walls, clouds, framed photos of smiling boys—Eleanor’s eyes burned. She’d never know motherhood, never hear *”Mum.”*
“You’re so lucky,” she whispered.
“Lucky? James only wants me for babies. Always abroad—Sweden now. Months alone. And—I’m pregnant *again*.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“Is it? I’ve still not lost the baby weight. What if it’s *another* boy? James’ll leave. I’m getting rid of it.”
“You can’t mean that. What if he finds out?”
“He won’t. And don’t *dare* tell him.” Charlie’s glare was venomous.
Eleanor’s mind raced. “When does he leave?”
“Two weeks. Why?”
A pause. Then—
“Don’t abort it. Have this baby—*for me*. You know I can’t. *Please.* How far along?”
“Ten weeks.” Charlie frowned, uncomprehending.
“Ten,” Eleanor echoed. “We’ll go to Leeds. Stay all summer. Air, freedom. James won’t return for months. By then, we’ll think of something. I’ll take the baby—you go home. You owe me this.”
“You’re insane! He’ll *know*.”
“But he doesn’t *now*. Just—try. If it fails, say you wanted to surprise him.”
“*No.*”
Yet when Charlie mentioned Leeds to James, he agreed instantly. “Go. I’ll be in Sweden till autumn.”
Too easy. Eleanor was overjoyed—she’d have a child! Charlie’s pregnancy was smooth, her fuller frame hiding the bump. The boys revelled in countryside freedom.
One day, they went berry-picking.
“In your state? What if something happens?” Eleanor’s mother fretted.
“It’s my third—I’ll be fine,” Charlie insisted.
That night, labour struck early. The ambulance barely made it. A fragile girl was born. The doctors gave no promises.
“Why d’you want her? What if she’s sick?” Charlie said coldly, signing away her rights.
She bound her breasts, eager to return to London. But Eleanor visited daily, watching the tiny fighter.
Charlie left with the boys, who remembered nothing. Eleanor quit her job, moved back to Leeds, and devoted herself to her daughter—Lucy. Charlie never called.
***
Fifteen years later
Under a sprawling oak at a modest cottage, tea steamed on the table. A woman fussed with cups. Opposite sat a burly, balding man, chatting between sips. A delicate teen girl with a braid over her shoulder slouched, bored.
Through the fence, Charlotte watched, eyes locked on the girl’s face. Then she pushed the gate open.
Eleanor leapt up, shocked. “How did—? Come in. This is my university friend—”
Lucy squirmed under Charlotte’s stare. “Mum, can I go to Meg’s?”
“Go.”
Her husband excused himself tactfully. Alone, Eleanor turned fierce.
“Why are you here?”
“I came for my daughter.”
“*Mine.* You wanted her dead. I saved her. *Leave.*”
“I’ve no one left,” Charlotte whispered. “My eldest’s in Sweden—won’t return. My younger boy died last year. James left me. Let her come to London—to university. I won’t tell her. Just… let me near her.”
Eleanor’s refusal died on her lips. She remembered begging Charlotte once, just like this. She sat, pulled her close, and wept with her.
Charlotte bombarded Lucy with gifts, gushed about her London mansion, the universities. Lucy eyed her warily.
“I’m not going,” she told Eleanor that night.
“Just visit. If you hate it, come back,” Eleanor said softly.
Departure day arrived. Charlotte glittered with false cheer. But Lucy vanished—found hiding in the cellar.
Charlotte left alone. Eleanor confessed to her husband.
“I wondered why you’d let her go. You saved that woman’s child.”
“But without Charlie, Lucy wouldn’t exist. We’re both her mothers. One birthed her, one raised her.”
Charlotte returned, pleading. Lucy finally agreed—itching for independence. Eleanor visited often. True to her word, Charlotte never revealed the truth.
After graduation, Lucy stayed in London, married, had a girl. Charlotte, once so reluctant to mother, doted on her granddaughter.
Little Agatha grew upYears later, when Agatha finally asked why she had three grandmothers, Lucy simply smiled and said, “Because you were loved by so many even before you were born.”
