“Bloody hell, Lydia, how could you let this happen?” shouted Valerie Thompson, their neighbor, waving her arms in the narrow hallway of the council flat. “You’re her mother! How can you just ignore what’s happening to your own daughter?”
“Keep your voice down, for God’s sake!” Lydia hissed, glancing around. “You’ll wake the whole building!”
“I don’t care! Everyone should know what kind of mother you are! Emily hasn’t left her room in three months—barely eats—and you’re pretending nothing’s wrong?”
Lydia pressed her lips tight and stormed into her room, slamming the door. Valerie huffed and marched back to her own flat.
The room was stuffy and quiet. Emily lay on the bed, facing the wall, pretending to sleep. Her mum shoved the window open—cool autumn air rushed in, fluttering the curtains.
“Love, get up. It’s lunchtime,” Lydia said softly.
Emily didn’t move. Her mum sat on the edge of the bed.
“I know you’re awake. Let’s talk, yeah?”
“About what?” Emily muttered into the pillow. “It’s done.”
“Done doesn’t mean finished. Life goes on. We’ve got to sort this out.”
Emily whipped around. Her face was pale, eyes swollen.
“Sort *what*, Mum? He’s marrying her next week! That Charlotte from uni! And I just sat here like an idiot, waiting for him to graduate!”
“Sweetheart, why torture yourself?” Lydia stroked her hair. “Maybe it wasn’t meant to be. You’ll find someone better.”
“*Better*?” Emily sat up, hollow-eyed. “Mum, you don’t get it. I’m—” She choked and turned back to the wall.
“What, darling? Tell me.”
“Nothing. It just hurts.”
Lydia sighed and stood. “Rest, then. But you *will* eat dinner. You’re skin and bones.”
She left to cook. Emily stared at the ceiling, a dull ache in her stomach. She pressed a hand under her nightdress.
“What do we do now?” she whispered.
That evening, Aunt Claire—Lydia’s younger sister, a nurse—dropped by. “What’s the verdict, Lyd? How’s our patient?”
“Still in bed, won’t eat. Driving me mad.”
“Seen a doctor?”
“Won’t even get up.”
Claire marched into Emily’s room. “Alright, love. Let’s have a look at you.”
Emily flinched when Claire checked her pulse. “When did you last eat properly?”
“Dunno.”
“And your last period?”
Emily froze. “…Dunno.”
“Think. When?”
“Two months, maybe.”
Claire frowned. “Up. We’re going to the loo.”
In the bathroom, Emily undressed reluctantly. Claire examined her, pressing her stomach. After, she sat Emily down.
“Em, be straight with me. Did you and that lad… you know?”
Emily flushed crimson. “…Yeah.”
“Used protection?”
“He said he knew what he was doing.”
Claire exhaled. “You’re pregnant. About three months.”
Emily went still. Then she crumpled, sobbing. Claire wrapped an arm around her.
“What do I *do*?” Emily gasped.
“First, we confirm it. Doctor tomorrow. Then you decide.”
“*Decide*?”
“Keep it or not. But think hard—raising a child alone’s no walk in the park.”
The next day, Claire took her to the clinic. Four months along.
Emily finally tracked down Daniel at uni. He paled when she told him.
“You’re *sure* it’s mine?”
“Who else’s?!”
He paced. “Em… I love Charlotte. It’s serious.”
“So what—I just… *deal* with it?”
“Maybe don’t have it? You’re young. You’ll meet someone else.”
She left before he finished.
That night, Claire asked, “Well?”
“He’s marrying her.”
“Right. Then it’s your choice.”
Emily whispered, “If I… end it… is it dangerous?”
“A good doctor’s safe. But it’ll cost six hundred quid.”
Emily had that much. Saved for a wedding. The irony.
Next morning, she decided.
“Aunt Claire… I’ll do it.”
They told Lydia it was appendicitis. The procedure was quick.
After, Emily cried silently in the hospital bed. For the life she’d ended. For the love she’d lost.
Years later, married to Steven with kids of her own, she never told a soul.
Only sometimes, passing a playground, she’d wonder—*What if that was mine?*
But some secrets stay buried. Forever.
