**Ill-Timed Love**
Mum was asleep when Emily peeked into her room, so she gently closed the door.
“Mum?” A weak voice called out. Emily turned back.
“I thought you were asleep. Do you need anything? I was going out with the girls for a bit.”
“Go on, love. I’ll rest,” Mum murmured, eyelids heavy, as if lifting them took all her strength.
Emily exhaled, relieved, and hurried to get ready. Months of tending to Mum’s illness had made her movements silent—even her steps down the stairs were soundless. Outside, her classmate Jake Turner waited, impatient.
“Took you long enough,” he grunted instead of a greeting.
“Had to make Mum some soup. Where are we going?” She smiled, trying to smooth things over.
“She still ill?”
“Yeah, just fell asleep. Not for long, alright? In case she needs me.”
“She’ll be fine, sleeping it off,” Jake said carelessly.
Emily bit her lip. She hadn’t told anyone what Mum really had. No pity, no panic at school.
“Rain’s starting. Let’s go to Tom’s—his parents are at their country house,” Jake whispered, pulling her close, trying to kiss her.
She jerked her head away. “What if someone sees?”
“Who? Your mum’s asleep. Come on.”
Emily hesitated. Last time at Tom’s, Jake had pushed too far. She liked him, but he was rushing things.
“Em, just half an hour. Promise I won’t push,” he pleaded. The rain thickened.
“Fine, but not long,” she agreed.
“Course not.” Jake hid his grin.
Tom smirked when he opened the door. “Look who’s here.”
Emily didn’t move. Being alone with two lads didn’t sit right.
“Downloaded a brilliant film yesterday,” Tom said. Jake kicked off his trainers and followed. Now was her chance to leave—but home felt just as hollow.
She shut the door, sat beside Jake. His arm draped over the sofa behind her. Tom brought them each a can of lager. She refused hers; Jake took it. She shot him a look, but stayed quiet.
The film drew her in—until Jake’s hand slithered under her jumper. She flinched, but he gripped her shoulder, fingers digging into her breast.
“You’re hurting me!” she cried.
He loosened his hold, and she leapt up. Tom was gone—she hadn’t even noticed.
“Em, sorry,” Jake mumbled.
“You promised!”
“Come off it. Acting like it’s your first time. I love you,” he said, standing.
The words stunned her. She couldn’t push him away. His kiss reeked of lager; his hands turned rough, insistent.
“Stop—I need to go,” she gasped, shoving his chest.
Suddenly, he yanked her down, pinning her. She thrashed, knee jerking up—connecting hard.
“Bloody hell!” He rolled off, swearing.
She bolted, snatching her trainers, fumbling with the lock.
“Fine, sod off then!” Jake shouted after her.
Emily flew down the stairs in socks, stopping only to yank on her shoes. How could she have trusted him? Mum was ill, and all he wanted was—
At home, she scrubbed his wet kisses from her skin. Sitting in the dark, she wondered: What if Mum died? She’d be alone. No money—just her A-levels left. Dad’s child support would stop at eighteen. No funds for a prom dress. No matter—she’d survive. Just let Mum get better.
She’d found out about the cancer herself. Mum downplayed it, but Emily googled her pills. The truth glared back.
Her phone buzzed—Jake. *Em, sorry.* She ignored it. Messages piled up: apologies, then anger, then curses. She turned it off.
Before bed, she checked on Mum.
“You asleep?”
Mum’s eyes fluttered open. “Need anything? Water? Loo?”
A faint headshake. Eyes closed again.
Morning came with a crash. Emily burst in to find Mum trembling, gripping the bed frame, a chair toppled.
“What were you thinking? Call me next time!” Emily scolded, shocked by how light Mum felt as she helped her back.
“Thought I could…” Mum panted, breathless.
“I’ll make tea.” Emily fled to the kitchen.
Mum sipped once, then stopped. Days without food. Hardly using the loo.
Emily’s stomach churned. She wanted to stay—couldn’t face Jake after last night. But exams loomed. She’d skip history, come home early.
School done, Mum still slept. Emily checked often—same position. Unease grew. She touched Mum’s bony shoulder—and knew.
Hand clamped over her mouth, she ran to Mrs. Wilkins next door. The retired widow took one look and understood. Called an ambulance. The coroner’s van came later.
Windows open, airing the flat. Mrs. Wilkins knocked on doors, collecting cash. School parents chipped in too. Mum’s coworkers arranged the funeral.
Days blurred. The woman in the coffin wasn’t Mum—not as Emily remembered her.
Rifling through papers, she found an old school notebook. Mum’s handwriting filled pages—no dates, just scattered memories. Why these?
*…Met James Harrington at seventeen. His surname—so posh. Asked if he was related to the historian. He laughed, said no.*
*Too young. He was older, wiser. Didn’t know it was love—real, once-in-a-lifetime. He never pushed. What could I offer? Foolish girl. Let happiness slip.*
*Love came too soon. Wanted dances, teddy bears—not French perfume. Even Emily’s more grown-up than I was.*
*He married. Said he loved me—how dare he? Then met Rob, my husband. Just fun then—A-levels, uni ahead. Rob failed exams, joined the army. Two-year service. Wrote sporadically. No plans.*
*When he returned, I was at uni. Had flings—nothing serious. Robbie worked, proposed fast. I panicked. Liked his boldness, hated the pressure. Said no—too young, studies first.*
*He left. Missed him, but pride kept me away. He came back, acted normal.*
*He was my first. Expected fireworks—got fumbling, discomfort. No magic.*
*A wedding invite made me want white lace, flower cars, applause…*
*We married three months later. A blur. Drunk uncles, cringe-worthy games. Vein askew, curls matted with hairspray. Spent midnight picking at the nest on my head. Rob snored when I emerged. Our wedding night…*
*Uni, housework, cooking fails. Rob craved attention. Fights. Then pregnancy, birth…*
*He strayed. Came home late or not at all. Ugly divorce. Harder alone with a baby.*
*Thought of James often. Mature, steady. Maybe different with him. We romanticize those we lose.*
*Then—cancer. Fatigue, fainting at work. Diagnosis like thunder. Hid tears from Emily.*
*Too late for surgery. No chemo—seen it kill faster. Two months predicted; I stole two years. But time’s up. Poor Emily—alone now. Hang on till her exams…*
Later, neater script:
*Why no diary sooner? Rereading, the past lives again. So many signs missed. Life’s in the details—understood too late…*
Emily wept. Mum had known real love—not like her and Jake. For days, the story haunted her. She searched social media: *James Harrington*. Hundreds popped up.
An old photo in Mum’s album: *”For keeps. James.”* Blurry, but she matched it to profiles, messaged them all: *Looking for James Harrington. Please reply.*
Two weeks later, a brief message: “That’s my dad. Send your number.” He never called.
Prepping for her last exam, the doorbell rang. A stranger stood there.
“Can I help you?”
“You, if you’re Emily. Mind if I come in? Not a psycho, promise.”
He was stylish, mid-twenties. “Something smells,” he noted, wrinkling his nose.
“Smells?” She flushed. “I don’t notice anymore.”
“Why’d you track me down?”
“Your dad—James Harrington. How’d you find me?”
“Phone number. Mate works at a telecom. Dad died six months back—heart attack. Why’d you want him?”
“Mum knew him years before I was born. Found her diary—she thought of him at the end.”
“Right. Got any food? Just off the train.”
The fridge held bread, eggs, half-pint of milk. “Only scrambled eggs,” she apologized.
“Cheers. Bit skint, huh?”
She stiffened. “School’s almost done. Neighbors and school pitched in. I’ll job-h”Then one day, as she unpacked a box in her new flat near the Thames, she found Mum’s notebook tucked between her own things—and for the first time in months, she let herself weep, not for the love lost, but for the love that might still be found.”
