**A Life of One’s Own**
“Mum, why are you so upset? Denis said he loves me. We’re getting married,” said Poppy, calmer than ever.
“How can I not be? You’re pregnant, not married, still in college, and I’ve never even met this Denis! Do you think a child is some sort of plaything? He’d better show up today and look me in the eyes while he promises to take responsibility, understand?”
“Stop shouting! I thought you’d be happy about a grandchild. I’ll go fetch Denis—he’ll be back from work soon. I’ve got a key to his flat in the student digs. I’ll wait there. You’re being impossible,” Poppy huffed, flouncing out of the house, swinging her handbag carelessly.
Margaret clutched her chest, sank onto the stool, and stared at the portrait of her late husband.
“There she goes, fatherless and foolish!” she muttered to the photo. “Oh, Edward, why did you leave us so soon? I’ve failed our girl. She’s too young, too quick. What if this lad turns his back on her? How will we manage? My wages are meagre, and who’d hire a pregnant lass now? She’s still got six months of study left. Oh, what a mess!”
Margaret buried her face in her apron and wept. The weight of life had crushed her young—her husband had died at the timber yard when Poppy was barely two. They’d lived on the outskirts of Manchester then. Few knew how hard she’d toiled—just her old friend and the neighbours down the lane. She’d always given the best bits to her child, scraping by to keep the home. And now, just as life had seemed to settle, her own daughter dropped this on her.
“Right, best get the pastry going for the pies. The son-in-law’s coming, after all. Oh, Poppy, Poppy…”
When the table was set, Margaret changed into her Sunday dress and picked up her knitting to steady her nerves.
Then, the front door creaked open—Poppy had returned. Her mother peered behind her, but no one else stood there.
“Where’s your man? Did you leave him on the step?”
“Gone,” Poppy sniffled. “He’s left me.”
“How?” Margaret sank onto a chair.
“Just like that! Quit his job, packed his things, and vanished. That’s what the landlady said…”
Poppy looked lost, tears brimming in her eyes. Being a single mother had never been part of her plan.
“What shall I do, Mum?”
Margaret nearly reminded her she’d warned her, but bit her tongue. A mother’s heart isn’t stone.
“Have the baby, what else? It won’t undo itself. When’s it due?”
“July—just in time to get my diploma,” Poppy sighed, resting a hand on her belly.
…Poppy gave birth right on schedule. A little girl, named Daisy. And so, the three of them lived—like three lone oaks in a field.
Daisy grew sturdy and bright-eyed, full of mischief. Margaret adored her, but Poppy kept her at arm’s length. Daisy, vexingly, took after her deceitful father—same copper curls, same emerald eyes.
“Mum’s home!” Six-year-old Daisy would race to the door whenever she spotted Poppy through the window, eager for a hug.
“What’d you bring me?” She’d cling to her mother’s arm, gazing up trustingly.
“Nothing,” Poppy would snap, weary.
“But why? You promised ice cream yesterday!”
“Leave off! I’m tired!” Poppy would shove Daisy aside and retreat to her room.
Daisy would stand in the middle of the parlour, crying. She’d waited so long for affection, only to be pushed away. Worse still, at nursery, they’d made her draw her family—just her, Mum, and Gran. The other children had laughed. “No-dad Daisy,” they’d taunted.
Margaret would rush to comfort her, but the weight of sorrow would swallow the child in heaving sobs.
“Where’s my dad? Why’s Mum so cross?” Daisy would wail.
Margaret would hold her tight.
“Not everyone has a dad, love. We’ll manage fine without. More pies for us, eh? Come on, let’s fetch some ice cream.”
At the magic word, Daisy would sniffle.
“And for Mum too?”
“And for Mum.”
In Margaret’s house, Mother’s Day was always grand. After all, it was a household of women. The table groaned with food, Poppy brought friends, and gifts were exchanged. But this year, Poppy arrived not with friends—but a man. And she hadn’t warned her mother.
There, on the threshold, stood a well-dressed bloke, far older than Poppy.
“Mum, meet Alistair. My boss. He’s being transferred for a promotion. We’re getting married.”
“What?” Margaret stood frozen.
“Oh! Is he my dad?” Daisy piped up from her room, having overheard. She forgot even to greet him in her excitement.
“No, girl, I’m not your father,” Alistair smirked. “Look what dolly I’ve brought you.”
Daisy turned away, refusing the toy. Something about him felt wrong.
The evening dragged. Alistair made no effort to charm, while Poppy fawned over him, snapping at Daisy.
“Sit straight! What will Uncle Alistair think? Stop fidgeting!”
Margaret stayed quiet, uneasy. Alistair, though, basked in his superiority, treating them like charity cases. Daisy barely ate, watching her mother fearfully.
“Our division’s topped the charts. So, congratulations—you’re looking at the future regional director. Pity the office is miles away. We’ll move. Poppy’s coming. A proper house with a garden awaits.”
“Will I go too? Is the school nice?” Daisy asked.
Alistair stayed silent, shooting Poppy a look. She swiftly changed the subject.
“Mum, how’s work? Maybe retire—you deserve a rest.”
“But my pension’s years off. How would we live?”
“Alistair and I will provide. You’ll want for nothing.”
“Why?” Margaret frowned.
“Girl, off to your room with that dolly,” Alistair commanded.
Daisy glanced at her gran, who nodded, and she left, abandoning the toy by the door.
“Mum, here’s the thing,” Poppy began. “We don’t want Daisy with us at first. We’ll fetch her once we’re settled.”
“Why wait? You said the house is big. What’s the problem?” Margaret was stunned.
“A child’s a burden,” Alistair said coolly. “We’ll pay you for your trouble.”
“She’s got a name,” Margaret snapped. “So that’s why the money—to ditch your own flesh and blood?”
“Mum, it’s temporary,” Poppy simpered. “It’s awkward for Alistair.”
“Temporary becomes permanent. Go where you like. Daisy stays with me.”
Alistair strode out, chin high, while Poppy lingered to plead.
“Mum, don’t you want me happy? A good man, finally! Daisy won’t vanish—I’ll fetch her in six months.”
“Do as you like,” Margaret waved tiredly. “But I won’t let you break that child’s heart. I’ll say you’re off on business. She already grieves her father—must she lose you too?”
“I’m not abandoning her!”
“Aren’t you?”
Poppy left without another word.
A week later, she packed her bags. Daisy hovered, fussing.
“Mum, wear something warm—you’ll catch cold. And take mittens, in case it snows.”
Poppy laughed.
“It’s the South, silly. No need for all that.”
Margaret watched, heart heavy, as Daisy clung, offering her favourite bear.
“Take him. He’s my best. I’m giving him to you.”
Poppy tossed it into the case impatiently. Daisy tucked it in, whispering,
“Don’t be sad, Teddy. Mum’s just upset about leaving. Look after her, won’t you?”
Margaret fled to the kitchen, muffling her sobs in a tea towel.
“Off I go,” Poppy chirped, ignoring the cab outside. “No need to see me out.”
“Mum!” Daisy lunged, clinging. “Don’t go!”
“Get off! I’ll miss my flight! Mum, take her!”
Margaret scooped up the wailing child.
Two minutes later, Poppy was gone.
Years passed—six, then ten—but Poppy never returned for Daisy. She sent money, sometimes called, but never visited. Margaret worked as always, stashing the cheques for Daisy’s future.
At graduation, Daisy stood with her gran while her classmates posed with whole families. The ache of absenceYears later, as Daisy stood at her grandmother’s grave, clutching the same worn bear, she finally understood—family isn’t about who stays, but who loves you enough to never let go.
