**Untimely Love**
Sophie peeked into her mother’s bedroom and, seeing her asleep, quietly closed the door.
“Sophie,” her mother called out weakly.
“Yes, Mum?” Sophie stepped back in. “I thought you were sleeping. Do you need anything? I was just going out for a bit with the girls.”
“Go on, love. I’ll rest,” Julia murmured, closing her eyes. Even lifting her heavy lids took more effort than she could bear.
Sophie exhaled in relief and rushed to get ready. Over the months of her mother’s illness, she’d grown used to moving silently. She padded down the stairs without a sound. Outside, her classmate Michael Turner waited impatiently.
“Took you long enough,” he grumbled instead of greeting her.
“Was making Mum some broth. Where are we going?” Sophie smiled, hoping to smooth things over.
“She still poorly, then?”
“Yes, just fell asleep. We won’t be long, alright? In case she needs me,” Sophie pleaded.
“Relax, she’ll sleep it off,” Michael said carelessly.
Sophie bit her lip. She hadn’t told anyone what her mother was really ill with. No pity, no whispers at school.
“Bloody rain’s starting. Let’s go to Jake’s—his parents are at their cottage,” Michael muttered, pulling her close, trying to kiss her. Sophie jerked her head away.
“Stop it! Someone might see.”
“Who? Your mum’s asleep. Come on, then?”
Sophie hesitated. Last time they’d gone to Jake’s, Michael had pushed too far. She fancied him, but he was rushing things.
“Soph, just half an hour. Promise I won’t hassle you,” he begged. The rain thickened.
“Alright, but not long,” she relented.
“Course not.” Michael hid his grin.
Jake smirked when he opened the door. “Look who it is.”
Sophie didn’t move. Being alone with two lads didn’t sit right.
“Downloaded a cracking film last night,” Jake said. Michael kicked off his trainers and followed him inside. Sophie considered leaving—but home held no comfort either.
She shut the door and joined them, sitting beside Michael. His arm snaked around the sofa behind her. Jake brought out cans of lager. Sophie refused hers, so Michael took it. She side-eyed him but stayed quiet.
The film was good, gripping from the start. She only snapped back to reality when Michael’s hot, searching hand slid under her jumper. She flinched, but he held her shoulder, squeezing her breast painfully.
“Ow! That hurts!” she cried.
Michael loosened his grip, and Sophie leapt up. Jake was gone—she hadn’t noticed him leave.
“Soph, sorry,” Michael slurred.
“You promised!” she hissed.
“Don’t be daft. Why’re you acting like it’s your first time? I love you.” He stood, too.
It was the first time he’d said it. The words tangled her resolve. He kissed her, his breath sour with lager. His hands turned rough, insistent.
“Stop—I have to go,” Sophie gasped, shoving his chest.
Suddenly, Michael hauled her onto the sofa, pinning her down. She thrashed, kneeing him hard between the legs.
“Bloody hell!” He rolled off, cursing. Sophie bolted, snatching her trainers and fumbling with the lock.
“Fine, sod off then!” he shouted after her.
She fled downstairs, stopping only to yank on her shoes. How could she have trusted him? Her mother was dying upstairs, and he—
At home, she scrubbed her face and neck, erasing the clammy feel of his lips. Later, sitting in the dark, she wondered: What if Mum died? She’d be alone. How would she live? Eighteen in two months—no more child support from her absent father. No money, not even for a prom dress. But that didn’t matter. Just let Mum get better.
She’d googled her mother’s medications weeks ago. The truth was clear: cancer.
Her phone buzzed. Michael: “Soph, sorry.” She ignored it. Messages flooded in—apologies, then curses. She turned it off.
Before bed, she checked on Mum.
“Mum, you awake?”
Julia’s eyes fluttered open with effort.
“Need anything? Water? Loo?”
A faint head-shake, then her eyes closed again.
Morning brought a crash. Sophie sprinted to her mother’s room. Julia clung to the bedframe, legs shaking, a toppled chair on the floor. Sophie caught her, shocked by how light she’d become.
“Why didn’t you call me?” she scolded, easing her back into bed.
“Thought I could…” Julia panted.
“I’ll make tea.” Sophie fled to the kitchen.
Her mother sipped a little, then refused more. She hadn’t eaten in days, barely moved.
Unease gnawed at Sophie. She wanted to stay, especially after last night. But exams loomed. She’d skip history and come home early.
Returning, she found her mother still. Too still. A touch confirmed it. Sophie stumbled out, hand clamped over her mouth, and knocked on Mrs. Wilkins’ door. The retired neighbour took one look, phoned an ambulance, then the undertaker.
When they took Julia away, Sophie opened every window. Mrs. Wilkins collected donations from the building. School parents chipped in. Mum’s colleagues arranged the funeral.
Sophie moved numbly. The woman in the coffin wasn’t her mother—not as she remembered her.
Days later, rummaging through papers, Sophie found a school exercise book filled with her mother’s handwriting. No dates, just fragments of memory. Why these?
*…How old was I when I met Stephen? Maybe a year younger than Sophie is now. His surname—Carrington—caught me off guard. I joked if he was kin to the famous writer. He laughed, said just a coincidence.*
*Too young when we met. Seven years older, he seemed worldly. Didn’t realise it was love—true love. He never pushed. What could I have offered? I was daft, didn’t appreciate him. Let happiness slip through my fingers.*
*Love comes too soon sometimes. I wanted dances, stuffed toys, not French perfume. Even Sophie’s more grown-up than I was. Still in school. Of course, he didn’t wait—married someone else. Hurt like hell. Said he loved me, then left.*
*But then—met Edward. Future husband. Just fun then: cinema, walks. He failed his exams, joined the army. I started uni. We wrote sporadically, no plans. Two-year service then. When he returned, I fancied him properly. He proposed. I panicked—too soon! He stormed off. I missed him but was too proud.*
*He came back, acted like nothing happened. My first. I’d dreamt it would be magical. It wasn’t. Just… awkward. No fireworks.*
*Then a wedding invite. Wanted the white dress, the flowers, the eyes on me.*
*Three months later, we married. Barely remember it. Drunk uncles, silly games. Vein askew, hair a mess. Spent hours combing out hairspray tangles. He was snoring by the time I got to bed.*
*Then—uni, housework, cooking disasters. Edward wanted attention. Fights. Pregnancy, birth…*
*He strayed. Came home late or not at all. Messy divorce. Harder alone with a baby.*
*Kept thinking of Stephen. Older, steadier. Might’ve been different. We idealise what we’ve lost.*
*Then—this illness. Out of nowhere. Fatigue, fainting at work. Diagnosis: cancer. Refused chemo. Seen what it does. Given two months, lasted two years. But now—time’s up. My poor girl. She’ll be alone…*
Later, neater script:
*Why didn’t I journal sooner? Reading this, it’s all so vivid—like yesterday. Hindsight’s cruel. Life’s in the details. Too late to see it now…*
Sophie sobbed. Her mother had known real love—unlike her and Michael.
She googled Stephen Carrington. Hundreds popped up. An old photo in Mum’s album: *”For keeps. Stephen.”* She messaged the likeliest men. One replied—his son. Exchanged numbers, but no call came.
Prepping for her final exam, the doorbell rang. A stranger stood there.
“You Sophie?” he asked. “Mind if I come in? Not a psychopath—promise.”
She let him in. Well-dressed, handsome, mid-twenties.
“Why’s it smell in here?” he frowned.
“Smell?” Sophie flushed.
“You reached out. Not me—my dad, Stephen Carrington. How’d you find my address?”
“Your number. Mate works for a mobile company. Dad died six months back—heart attack. Why’d you want him?”
Sophie looked at him, her mother’s memories heavy in her heart, and whispered, “Because she never stopped loving him.”
