**The Family Secret**
Five-year-old Emily woke to muffled voices and movement in the flat. It was still dark outside when she crept from her room and saw figures in white coats gathered around her mother’s bed. Charlotte lay still, eyes closed.
“Mum… Mum, wake up,” Emily whispered, her voice trembling. Fear twisted in her chest as she began to cry.
She watched, small and helpless, as they lifted Charlotte onto a stretcher and carried her out. The ambulance took her away, leaving only her father, David, behind. Last night, Emily had heard them arguing—sharp words she didn’t understand, though one name stood out: *Rose*. She knew Rose was Mum’s sister, long gone. A photo of her hung on the wall at Gran’s cottage in the countryside.
Why they fought, Emily couldn’t say. Mum had wept; Dad had raised his voice. Then silence, until now.
“Dad, what’s wrong with Mum?” she asked, tears spilling.
“It’s her heart, love. Too weak for stress. Go back to bed—it’s too early. I’ll wake you for nursery.”
Charlotte had lain there, unable to call out. David, asleep on the sofa, had woken inexplicably in the night and found her unresponsive. Panic sent him dialling for help.
Morning came. David dropped Emily at nursery with a hurried nudge. “Change your shoes and go in. I’m late for work. We’ll visit Mum tonight.”
Work was a blur of exhaustion. Rita, the dispatcher—young, pretty, and his mistress of two years—sidled up. They’d been tangled since an office party. David drove lorries; Rita filled the gaps his marriage didn’t. Charlotte had no idea, but suspicion lingered.
Last night’s row had erupted when Charlotte ran into Margaret, a colleague of David’s. “Your husband’s back early—his logbook’s still in the office,” Margaret had said, then paled. The garage knew about Rita.
David denied it that evening, but Charlotte pressed until the truth spilled. Maybe if he’d lied, her heart wouldn’t have given out.
At the hospital, Charlotte was pale beneath an IV. Emily’s heart ached. David had already decided—he’d leave. Rita was pregnant; she wanted him gone. But the doctor’s warning held him back: *No stress for Charlotte*.
Days passed. Gran—Margaret—arrived, shooing Emily away for a “private talk.” At first, quiet. Then raised voices. Rose’s name again.
Gran had learned of the affair. She’d stayed silent until Charlotte’s collapse. David sneered—*none of her business*.
Charlotte came home, frail. Gran urged them to the countryside—clean air, peace. Emily frowned. “What about Dad?”
“Love, he won’t be coming with us,” Charlotte said gently. “When you’re older, you’ll understand.”
What Emily didn’t know: Before discharge, Charlotte had told David, *Take your things and go. I’ll file for divorce. And Emily was never truly yours.*
He left for Rita, vanished from their lives. The cottage was quiet. But whispers reached Emily—Gran confiding in a neighbour: *He’s got a new wife now, young and healthy. Already gave him a child. Charlotte’s poorly—weak, breathless.*
Emily noticed how Mum lingered on Rose’s photo, how tears sometimes fell.
Years passed. Charlotte grew sicker. Emily, now in secondary school, helped Gran, determined to make Mum proud. “I’ll be a doctor,” she vowed.
Then, the worst: Charlotte was gone.
At fifteen, Emily asked, “Gran, why do I look like Aunt Rose, not Mum?”
Gran sighed. “You’re old enough now.” She confessed the truth: Emily’s parents were Rose and Anthony, killed in a crash when she was two. David—driving drowsy in the rain—had hit their car, fled the scene. He confessed to Charlotte, but they buried it. No one could undo it. They took Emily in.
“But Mum loved you like her own,” Gran whispered.
Emily stared at the photos—*two mothers, both gone*.
She became a doctor, brought Gran to the city, married a colleague, Thomas. Gran met her twin grandsons, Oliver and Henry, before passing peacefully.
Life moved on. But the secret remained—a weight, a truth, a legacy of love and loss.
