**Untimely Love**
I peeked into Mum’s room and saw her sleeping, so I gently closed the door.
“Emily,” Mum suddenly called out in a weak voice.
“Yeah, Mum?” I stepped back in. “I thought you were asleep. Do you need anything? I was just about to go out with the girls for a bit.”
“Go on, I’ll rest,” Mum murmured, closing her eyes again. Even lifting her heavy lids seemed exhausting.
I exhaled, relieved, and hurried to get ready. Since Mum fell ill, I’d grown used to moving quietly. I crept down the stairs without a sound. Outside, my classmate Jake Thompson was waiting, scowling.
“Took you long enough,” he grumbled instead of a greeting.
“I was making soup for Mum. Where are we going?” I forced a smile, trying to smooth things over.
“She still sick, then?”
“Yeah, she just fell asleep. We won’t be long, right? In case she needs me.”
“Relax, she’ll sleep it off,” Jake said carelessly.
I bit my lip. I hadn’t told anyone what Mum really had. I didn’t want pity or panic spreading at school.
“Bloody rain,” Jake muttered. “Let’s go to Matt’s—his parents are away at their cottage.” He pulled me closer, trying to kiss me, but I jerked my head back.
“Stop it! Someone might see.”
“Who? Your mum’s asleep. Come on,” he pressed.
I hesitated. Last time we went to Matt’s, Jake had pushed things too far. I liked him, but he was always rushing.
“Em, just for half an hour. I promise I won’t hassle you,” he begged as the rain picked up.
“Fine, but not long,” I gave in.
“Course not.” Jake tried to hide his grin.
Matt answered the door and smirked when he saw us. “Come in.”
I didn’t move. I didn’t want to be alone with two lads.
“Downloaded a cracking film yesterday,” Matt said. Jake kicked off his trainers and followed him. I thought about leaving, but going home felt worse.
I closed the door and sat beside Jake. He immediately draped his arm behind me. Matt handed out cans of lager. I refused mine, so Jake took it, giving me a sidelong glance.
The film was gripping, pulling me in—until I felt Jake’s hot, searching hand under my top. I flinched, but he held my shoulder, squeezing my chest painfully.
“That hurts!” I cried. He loosened his grip, and I leapt up. Matt had vanished.
“Em, sorry,” Jake mumbled.
“You promised!” I snapped.
“Don’t make a fuss. Not like it’s your first time. I love you.” He stood too.
It was the first time he’d said it. I hesitated, and he kissed me, his breath bitter with lager. His hands turned rough, insistent.
“Stop, I need to go,” I gasped, shoving his chest.
Suddenly, he grabbed me, pinning me down. I fought, kneeing him hard between the legs.
He cursed and rolled off. I bolted, snatching my trainers and fumbling with the lock.
“Fine, sod off then!” he shouted as I fled.
Outside, I stopped, breathless, to pull on my trainers. How could I have trusted him? Mum was ill, and all he wanted was one thing.
At home, I scrubbed my face and neck, washing away Jake’s sloppy kisses. Sitting in the dark, I wondered: What if Mum died? I’d be alone. How would I live? My eighteenth birthday was in two months—Dad’s child support would stop. No money, not even for a prom dress. But none of that mattered if Mum got better.
I’d Googled her medication weeks ago. Cancer. She’d tried to hide it, but I knew.
My phone buzzed—Jake: “Em, sorry.” I ignored it. Messages flooded in: apologies, then swearing. I turned it off.
At bedtime, I checked on Mum. “You awake?”
She barely opened her eyes. “Need anything? Water? Loo?”
She shook her head slightly.
Morning came with a crash. I dashed in to find Mum swaying, gripping the bedframe, a chair toppled. I caught her, shocked by how light she felt.
“Why didn’t you call me?” I scolded, tucking her in.
“Thought I could…” she panted.
“I’ll make tea.” I fled to the kitchen.
She sipped a little. She hadn’t eaten for days. My stomach churned. I wanted to stay—after last night, I couldn’t face Jake. But exams were close. I decided to skip history and come home early.
Mum was asleep when I returned. I kept checking, but she hadn’t moved. Uneasy, I touched her bony shoulder—and knew. I ran out, hand over my mouth, and knocked on our neighbour’s door. She took one look at me and called an ambulance, then the undertaker.
After they took Mum, I opened every window. The neighbour collected money from the flats, and somehow, school found out—parents chipped in. Mum’s colleagues arranged the funeral.
Those days blurred. The woman in the coffin wasn’t her—I remembered her before the sickness.
Later, rummaging through papers, I found an old exercise book filled with Mum’s writing. No dates, just scattered memories. Why had she written these?
*I must’ve been younger than Emily is now when I met Stephen. His surname—Carrington—caught my eye. I joked if he was related to the famous author. He laughed it off. Too young, too stupid to recognise real love. He never asked for anything. Seven years older, he seemed so wise. But I wanted dances and teddy bears, not French perfume.*
*He married. I was furious—said he loved me, then left. Soon after, I met David, my future husband. Just a fling then—I had uni ahead. He failed his exams, joined the army. We wrote occasionally. When he returned, I was in third year, dated a few lads. He proposed—I panicked. Said I wasn’t ready. He walked out.*
*I missed him, but pride kept me away. He came back like nothing happened. My first time was nothing like the films—clumsy, underwhelming. At a friend’s wedding, I envied the white dress. We married three months later. The day’s a blur—smudged lipstick, tacky games. I barely knew him.*
*Between uni and housework, we fought. Then pregnancy, a messy divorce. Alone with a baby, I often thought of Stephen. Maybe with him, life would’ve been different.*
*Then the diagnosis. Fainting at work, tests, the crushing truth. I refused chemo—knew it’d kill me faster. Two months became two years. But now, I’m fading. My poor girl, alone…*
Later, neater writing:
*Why didn’t I journal sooner? It all floods back—the signs I missed. Life’s in the details, but you realise too late…*
I wept. Mum had loved deeply, unlike what I’d had with Jake. I Googled Stephen—hundreds of hits. An old photo in Mum’s album had “Stephen Carrington” scribbled on the back. Blurry, but something. I messaged every match: “Looking for Stephen Carrington. Please reply.”
A fortnight later, a short response: “That’s my dad. Send your number.” He never called.
On my last exam day, the doorbell rang. A stranger stood there.
“Can I help you?”
“You, if you’re Emily. Can I come in? Not a psycho, promise.”
I let him in. Well-dressed, handsome, a few years older.
“What’s that smell?” he frowned.
“What smell?”
“Why’d you search for me?”
“Not you—your dad, Stephen Carrington. How’d you find me?”
“Mobile number. Mate works for a telecom. Dad died six months back—heart attack. Why look for him?”
“Mum wrote about him before she passed. I wanted to know if he’d loved her.”
I showed the photo. “I’ve got this too,” he said—Oliver.
We talked. “Train’s tonight—got to go,” he said.
“Where to?”
“Home. Manchester. Why’d you come? Could’ve called.”
I didn’t want him to leave. I liked him—easy, kind.
“Dad was decent. Got your letter—thought you might be a secret sister. Awkward over the phone.”
“How’d they meet? He was in Manchester, Mum never left town.”
“Who knows? Fate. Scared alone here?”
“Not really.”
He left his number. At the window, loneliness hit. Next morning, I trudged to my exam, indifferent—no plans for uni.
After, I avoided classmates. Days later, collecting my grades, I foundOliver was waiting outside the school gates with a bouquet and a job offer, his smile telling me I wouldn’t face the future alone.
