As often happens, Emily never knew her father. He left her and her mother right after she was born. They lived in a small town in a terraced house—nothing grand, just modest. Her mother didn’t spoil her. From childhood, Emily learned to light the hearth, tend the garden, and fetch groceries from the shops.
She excelled in school, earning top marks, and dreamt of becoming an actress, of living in London. After finishing school, she left their tiny town for Manchester, took the first job she saw advertised, and enrolled in university part-time.
“Dreams are fine,” her mother would say, “but you need a trade that’ll always put food on the table. Actors feast one day and starve the next.”
Once she graduated and earned more, Emily bought herself a car on finance—nothing showy, just a reliable secondhand Vauxhall Corsa. She drove it proudly back to visit her mother.
These days, she’s moved on to another car, but she never forgot that first one. Recently, she spotted it parked in the city, astonished it still ran. She’d have kept it forever, but… well, life happened. Love happened. Her first real romance. Almost at once, he suggested moving in, renting a little flat together. Before long, he convinced her to sell the car.
“It’s old—it’ll start falling apart any day now. Let’s sell it and get something newer, something that’ll last.”
Emily agreed. After all, men understood these things better than young women did, didn’t they? She left the selling to him. To buy the new car, she took out another loan. He promised to help with the payments. How thrilled she was with her shiny Peugeot!
Somehow, it became his car. He’d drop her at work, then drive off on his own errands. He helped with the loan—twice—then said money was tight.
She might have let it slide—she loved him, made excuses—but one day, a neighbour stopped her in the courtyard. “You know your bloke’s bringing other girls round, don’t you?”
“Saw it with my own eyes. They pulled up in your car, arm in arm, went inside, and didn’t leave for hours.”
Emily, choking on rage and humiliation, muttered, “Yes, I know. It’s—” She couldn’t think of a lie. “Sorry, I’m in a rush,” she stammered, hurrying toward the stairs.
“Kick him out, love, before it’s too late,” the woman called after her.
At home, she unleashed her anger in tears. When he returned, she took the car keys and showed him the door.
Alone again, with the car and the loan. She took extra shifts cleaning the office where she worked—never letting colleagues know. Tutored evenings and weekends, teaching French. Dragged herself home exhausted, but cleared the debt quickly. Then she decided to buy a flat with a mortgage.
On a visit home, her old town seemed shrunken, faded. Her mother sighed. “Still alone? Youth doesn’t last forever. A pretty girl like you, with a car—surely someone catches your eye?”
In a burst of self-pity, Emily confessed her failed romance.
“Too trusting. I told you, cities are full of scoundrels. You read all those love stories, but life isn’t like that. No knights in shining armour—just men looking for easy prey. Never mind, you’ll find your match.” Her mother left, then returned with a newspaper bundle.
“Here. Been saving for your wedding. You can’t rent forever. It’s not much, but enough for a deposit.”
Emily kissed her, and both wept.
Back in Manchester, she bought a little one-bed flat. It was just a place to sleep, really. Still tutoring, still working—no more cleaning, though. Weary but content, she returned each night to her own space.
Cautious now, she kept men at arm’s length. By twenty-eight, she had the flat, half the mortgage paid, a car, and pride in earning it all herself—no rich relatives, no father’s help.
But love eluded her. No time, no place to meet anyone. And when she did, she hesitated. Still, she longed for marriage, a family—someone to cook for, to welcome home.
Then, like an unexpected storm, an old schoolfriend, Lucy, turned up unannounced, bearing jams and pickles from Emily’s mother.
“You’re lucky, Em. Smart to leave that backwater. Look at you—flat, car, good money. I stayed for Tom, remember him? His mum was poorly—nursed her like my own. For what? Soon as she passed, he took up with some young teacher. Made a proper scene, I did. Now I’m starting fresh. Mind if I stay a few days?”
“Fine. I’m barely home—can’t even keep a cat. I’ll buy a camp bed tomorrow.”
“Don’t fuss. Won’t be long.”
But Emily had grown used to solitude. Still, she couldn’t turn Lucy out.
A week passed. Then two. No job, just late nights—once stumbling home at dawn in Emily’s dress.
“Really? Couldn’t even wash up? Here to work or loaf?”
“Don’t start. I’ll sort it.”
“Pack your things. Go.”
Regret stabbed her—where would Lucy go? But freeloading had limits.
When Emily returned, Lucy was gone. The dishes were done—but the floor crumb-strewn, the kitchen splashed. Pity dissolved. She could’ve wiped a cloth.
Then—the tutoring cash, hidden under her linens—gone. Lucy’s new perfume, the blouse—paid for how?
She rang, voice tight. “Return it. The mortgage is due.”
“Didn’t take anything.”
“You did. Every penny I sweated for.”
“Prove it.”
“Return it, or I’ll sue.”
That evening, Lucy shoved the money on the sideboard—some missing—then left, chin high. As if Emily were the thief.
She remembered sixth year—her favourite pen, a gift from Gran. Unique. Lucy’s envious glances. Then it vanished. Days later, she spotted it on Lucy’s desk.
“Mine.”
“Mum bought me one just like it.”
“Keep it, then.”
And Lucy had, unashamed.
Now, years later—money, not a pen.
Six months on, her mother mentioned Lucy—pregnant, back with Tom.
“Rumour says it’s not his. He hits her when he drinks. Poor thing.”
Emily thought, “If I hadn’t thrown her out—” But no. Some paths were set.
She resolved then: no more rigid rules. Life wasn’t just work. She’d go out, see films, fall in love properly. And this time—she’d choose wisely.
