Margaret stood by the kitchen window, watching her husband George tinker with some gadget in the garage. In her hand was a crumpled note she’d found in Emily’s jeans pocket. The ink had smudged from her tears, but she kept rereading the scrawled words: *”Meet me at ten by the front door. Nan sleeps like a log—she won’t hear a thing. Love, Danny.”*
“Lord, why me?” Margaret whispered, crushing the paper tighter.
Emily had come into their lives six months ago. She was the daughter of George’s sister, Janet—a woman who’d bounced from one disastrous bloke to another, drank too much, and eventually died in a car crash. At sixteen, Emily was left with no one. Of course, she and George couldn’t just abandon her.
“Love, she’s family,” George had argued. “Where’s she supposed to go? A care home?”
So Margaret agreed. She and George had never had children—doctors said it wouldn’t happen. Maybe this was fate’s way of giving them a second chance.
How wrong she’d been.
At first, it was lovely. Emily seemed sweet, grateful. Helped around the house, got top marks, called them Auntie Marg and Uncle George. Margaret doted on her—bought her pretty clothes, signed her up for netball, even hired a tutor for her French.
“D’you see our clever girl?” she’d boast to the neighbours. “Straight A’s, she gets!”
But slowly, things shifted. Emily grew snappy, rude. Came home later and later. Then, a week ago, Margaret noticed money missing from the biscuit tin.
“Em, love, you didn’t take anything from the tin, did you?” she’d asked gently.
“What money?” Emily didn’t even glance up from her phone.
“The two hundred quid I’d saved for your new trainers.”
“Dunno what you’re on about. Maybe you spent it and forgot.”
Margaret had said nothing, but her chest ached. She *knew* there’d been two hundred pounds. And on their tiny pension, it wasn’t as if they had spare cash lying about.
Then came the sneaking out. Emily thought she was quiet, but Margaret slept lightly, like all old folk. She heard every creaky floorboard, every careful turn of the key.
She’d tried talking to her. But every time, Emily brushed her off or stormed out.
And now *this* note. Who was Danny? What were they doing out at all hours?
“Marg, where’s Emily?” George wiped his hands on a tea towel as he walked in.
“Upstairs. Glued to her phone, as usual.”
“Reckon we ought to have a word? Girl’s getting out of hand.”
“I’ve tried. She won’t listen.”
George sat and poured himself tea from the pot. “What’s that in your hand?”
Margaret handed him the note. His frown deepened.
“Where’d you find this?”
“In her jeans. When I was doing the washing.”
“Right. This is serious. We need to set her straight.”
Just then, Emily slouched in—tall, thin, with long dark hair. Pretty, but with a glare that could curdle milk.
“Oh, discussing me, are we?” She yanked open the fridge.
“Em, sit down, love,” Margaret said. “We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“This.” George held up the note.
Emily faltered for half a second, then scoffed. “So? That’s private.”
“Nothing’s private under our roof,” George said firmly. “We’re responsible for you.”
“Right. Out of the *kindness of your hearts*,” Emily sneered, plonking into a chair. “Poor little orphan, taken in by saintly Auntie Marg and Uncle George.”
“Emily!” Margaret gasped. “That’s not—we *love* you!”
“Love me?” Emily’s laugh was sharp. “Then why d’you track my every move? Why can’t I see my boyfriend?”
“Because you’re a *child*,” George cut in. “And we don’t know this lad.”
“Danny’s brilliant. He *gets* me, unlike you lot.”
“How old is Danny?” Margaret asked quietly.
A pause. “…Twenty-one.”
“*What?!*” Margaret nearly dropped her cup. “You’re sixteen! That’s—that’s *illegal*!”
“Don’t be dramatic!” Emily shouted. “We’re in *love*!”
“Love?” George sighed. “At your age, it’s not love. It’s daftness.”
“You don’t *get* it!” Emily shot up. “You’re *old*! You never even had kids—what do *you* know?!”
The words hit Margaret like a slap. She paled, clutching her chest.
“Em, that’s enough—” George started.
“Oh, hit a nerve, did I?” Emily’s voice shook. “I never *asked* you to take me in! Should’ve left me in foster care!”
“Then *go*!” George roared. “If we’re so rotten to you!”
“George, don’t—” Margaret begged.
“No, let her! Off you pop to Danny’s, since we’re so *awful*!”
Emily glared. “Fine. I’ll pack. And don’t worry—I’ll pay you back every penny. *Danny’ll* help.”
She slammed the kitchen door so hard the clock rattled. Margaret burst into tears.
“George, what’ve we done…?”
“Nothing. *She* chose this. We’ve not been unkind.”
“But she’s a *child*. Where’ll she go?”
George hugged her. “Dunno, love. Dunno.”
Upstairs, drawers banged—Emily stuffing bags. Margaret ached to go up, but fear glued her to the spot.
An hour later, Emily stomped down with a duffel and backpack.
“Right. I’m off.” She wouldn’t meet their eyes.
“Em, wait,” Margaret stood. “Let’s talk properly—”
“Talk? *You* told me to leave.”
“George was cross. We don’t *want* you to go.”
“Well, *I* do. It’s *suffocating* here. Danny’s got a flat—I’m moving in.”
“School?” George said tightly.
“I’ll sort it. I’m nearly seventeen anyway.”
“Em, *listen*,” Margaret stepped closer. “I know you fancy him. But you barely *know* him—”
“He *loves* me!” Emily’s eyes blazed. “He’s the *only* one who does! And you just want to *cage* me!”
“We want you *safe*.”
“From *what*? Happiness?”
Emily marched to the door. Margaret followed.
“At least leave your number. I’ll worry sick!”
“Ugh, *fine*. But don’t ring every five minutes.”
The door slammed. Margaret watched from the window as Emily climbed into a car—a bloke in a leather jacket at the wheel.
“Well. That’s that,” George muttered. “Six months of raising her, and not so much as a *cheers*.”
“George… were we wrong? Should we’ve handled it—”
“*Wrong*? Letting a sixteen-year-old shack up with a grown man? Marg, *think*.”
Margaret nodded, but her heart was lead. She’d grown so fond of Emily—dreamed of a real family.
A week passed with no call. Margaret itched to dial, but George stopped her.
“Give her time. She’ll see sense.”
But the phone stayed silent. Then Mrs. Wilkins from next door popped ’round.
“Marg, love—did you know your Emily’s dripping in gold? Bracelets, necklaces… Where’s she getting that?”
Margaret frowned. “Danny, maybe.”
“Maybe. But word is, he’s… dodgy. Fancy car, no proper job.”
After she left, Margaret’s stomach churned. Had Emily got mixed up in something?
She tried calling.
“‘Ello?” A man’s voice.
“May I speak to Emily?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Her… aunt.”
A pause. Then Emily’s voice, flat: “What?”
“Em, it’s Auntie Marg. How are you?”
“Fine.”
“Still in school?”
“Mm.”
“Em… this Danny. What’s he do?”
“Why?”
“Just curious.”
“He’s in… business.”
“What *kind*?”
“Auntie Marg, *busy*. Bye.”
The click echoed. Margaret turned to George.
“Something’s *wrong*.”
“What can we do? She chose this.”
But Margaret couldn’t drop it. She started spotting Emily in town—decked in gold, designer clothes,Margaret wrapped her in a worn cardigan, whispering, “Next time you run, love, take us with you,” and for the first time in months, Emily hugged her back like she meant it.
