Margaret Wilson stood by the kitchen window, watching her husband Victor tinker with something in the garage. In her hand was a crumpled note she’d found in Emily’s jeans pocket. The words blurred through her tears, but she read them again: “Meet me at ten by the entrance. Gran sleeps like the dead—she won’t hear a thing. Love, Jake.”
“Good Lord, what did I do to deserve this?” Margaret whispered, crushing the paper tighter.
Emily had come into their lives six months ago. The daughter of Victor’s sister, Sarah, who’d spent her life drifting between men and drink before dying in a car crash. The sixteen-year-old had been left with no one. Of course, they couldn’t turn her away.
“Meg, she’s family,” Victor had pleaded. “Where else would she go? A care home?”
Margaret had agreed. She and Victor had never had children—doctors had said it wasn’t possible. Perhaps this was fate’s gift to them in their later years.
How wrong she’d been.
At first, everything was fine. Emily seemed grateful, well-behaved. She helped around the house, did well in school, called them Auntie Meg and Uncle Vic. Margaret doted on her—bought her nice clothes, enrolled her in football, even hired a tutor for her Maths GCSE.
“Look at our clever girl,” she’d bragged to the neighbours. “Straight A’s, she is.”
But slowly, things changed. Emily grew sharp-tongued, defiant. Came home later and later. Then, a week ago, Margaret noticed money missing from the biscuit tin.
“Emily, did you take anything from the cupboard?” she’d asked carefully.
“What money?” The girl hadn’t even looked up from her phone.
“The £200 I’d put aside for your new trainers.”
“Wasn’t me. Maybe you spent it and forgot.”
Margaret had said nothing, but the lie stung. She remembered exactly how much was there—they lived frugally on Victor’s pension.
Then came the sneaking out. Emily thought her aunt didn’t hear, but Margaret slept lightly these days. The creak of the floorboard, the careful turn of the key—she noticed it all.
She’d tried talking to her. But every time, Emily brushed her off or stormed out.
And now this note. Who was Jake? What were they doing out at night?
“Meg, where’s Emily?” Victor walked in, wiping grease off his hands.
“Upstairs. On that phone again.”
“We need to talk to her. She’s getting out of hand.”
“I’ve tried. She won’t listen.”
Victor sat at the table and poured tea from the pot.
“What’s that in your hand?”
Margaret passed him the note. His face darkened.
“Where’d you find it?”
“Her jeans pocket. When I was doing the wash.”
“Right. This is serious. We’re having words.”
Just then, Emily walked in. Tall, slim, dark-haired. Pretty, but with a sharp, defiant look.
“Oh, talking about me, are you?” she snapped, rummaging in the fridge.
“Emily, sit down,” Margaret said softly. “We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“This.” Victor held up the note.
For a second, panic flickered across Emily’s face. Then she shrugged.
“So? It’s private.”
“Nothing’s private under our roof,” Victor said firmly. “We’re responsible for you.”
“Oh? I thought you took me in out of pity,” Emily shot back, slumping into a chair. “Kind Uncle Vic and Auntie Meg, fostering the poor orphan.”
“Emily!” Margaret gasped. “How can you say that? We love you like our own!”
“Love me?” Emily laughed coldly. “Then why watch my every move? Why can’t I see my boyfriend?”
“Because you’re a child,” Victor cut in. “And we don’t know this lad.”
“Jake’s decent. He *gets* me, unlike you.”
“How old is he?” Margaret asked quietly.
A pause.
“Twenty-one.”
“*What?*” Margaret nearly dropped her cup. “You’re sixteen—he’s a grown man! That’s illegal!”
“It’s not! We love each other!”
“Love?” Victor scoffed. “At your age, it’s just daftness, not love.”
“You don’t *understand*!” Emily shoved back her chair. “You’re old—you never had kids! What would *you* know?”
The words hit Margaret like a slap. She paled, gripping the edge of the table.
“Emily, that’s enough—” Victor started, but the girl talked over him.
“Truth hurts, doesn’t it? I never asked you to take me in! Should’ve left me in foster care!”
“Then pack your things and *go*!” Victor roared. “If we’re so terrible!”
“Vic, don’t—” Margaret whispered.
“Let her! She wants her Jake so badly? Off she goes!”
Emily glared. “Fine. I’ll leave. And I’ll pay you back every penny. Jake’ll help.”
She slammed the kitchen door behind her. Margaret began to cry.
“Vic, what have we done?”
“We’ve done nothing. *She* chose this.”
“But she’s just a girl! What’ll happen to her?”
Victor squeezed her shoulder. “Dunno, love. Dunno.”
Thuds came from upstairs—Emily shoving clothes into bags. Margaret longed to go up, to fix this, but fear held her back.
An hour later, Emily appeared with a suitcase and backpack.
“Right. I’m off,” she muttered, avoiding their eyes.
“Em, wait,” Margaret stood. “Let’s talk properly.”
“Talk about *what*? *You* told me to leave.”
“Vic spoke in anger. We don’t want you to go.”
“Well *I* do. It’s suffocating here. Jake’s got a flat—I’m moving in.”
“And school?” Victor asked.
“I’ll sort it. I’m nearly seventeen anyway.”
“Emily, listen,” Margaret stepped closer. “I know you think you’re in love. But you barely know him. What if he’s using you?”
“He *isn’t*!” Emily’s voice cracked. “He’s the only one who *listens*! You just want to lock me up!”
“We want to *protect* you.”
“From *what*? Being happy?”
Emily marched to the door. Margaret followed.
“At least leave your number. I’ll worry.”
“Fine. But don’t ring every day.”
The door closed. Margaret watched from the window as Emily climbed into a car. Behind the wheel sat a lanky lad in a leather jacket.
“Well. That’s that,” Victor sighed. “Six months of raising her, and not so much as a thank you.”
“Vic… what if *we* messed up? What if we handled it wrong?”
“How? By letting a sixteen-year-old shack up with a grown man? Come to your senses!”
Margaret nodded, but her heart ached. She’d grown so attached—had really believed they’d be a proper family.
A week passed with no word. Margaret itched to call, but Victor stopped her.
“Give her time. She’ll see sense.”
But the call never came. Instead, their neighbour Mrs. Higgins dropped by.
“Margaret, did you know your Emily’s dripping in gold now? Bracelets, necklaces—where’s she getting that money?”
Margaret frowned. “Maybe from Jake.”
“Maybe. But word is, he’s got no proper job. Runs with a rough crowd.”
“What do you mean?”
“Flash cars, fancy gear—but no honest work.”
After she left, Margaret paced. Had Emily fallen in with criminals?
She dialled her number.
“‘Lo?” A man’s voice answered.
“May I speak to Emily?”
“Who’re you?”
“Her aunt.”
A pause. Then Emily came on.
“Yeah?”
“Em, it’s Auntie Meg. How are you?”
“Fine.”
“And… school?”
“Going.”
“Emily, this Jake… where does he work?”
“Why?”
“Just curious.”
“He’s in business.”
“What business?”
“Auntie Meg, I’m busy. Later.”
The line went dead. Margaret turned to Victor.
“Something’s not right.”
“What can we do? She made her choice.”
But Margaret couldn’t let it go. She started spotting Emily around town—decked in designer labels but hollow-eyed, exhausted.
Once, she caught her outside a Boots, buying painkillers.
“Emily!”
The girl spun around. Margaret gasped—her face was gaunt, dark circles under her eyes.
“Auntie Meg…”
“You’re ill?”
“Just tired.”
“From what? You don’t work.”
Emily lookedMargaret pulled her into a tight hug, whispering, “Come home, love—we’ll sort this out together.”
