The Troubles of Teenage Years
Emily dragged herself home, exhausted and hollow. In one hand she clutched her handbag, in the other—a heavy grocery bag. Her legs felt like lead. She wanted to collapse right there on the pavement, but Jack was waiting. Her son. The only reason she kept going. Without him, she would’ve given up long ago.
Some people are born with silver spoons in their mouths—life handed to them on a platter. Others, like Emily, were made for suffering. At sixteen, at a schoolmate’s birthday, she’d met a boy two years older. He seemed worldly, strong—unbound by rules. She fell hard.
She wasn’t beautiful, but nice-looking, as most girls were at that age. Clear grey eyes, straight brown hair, full lips, a figure with just the right curves.
That winter, her mother was hospitalised with pneumonia. The flat became hers—and his. And then it happened, as it does with young girls who don’t know any better. He coaxed, he promised, he said all the things she wanted to hear.
When she realised she was pregnant, she ran straight to him.
*”What’s that got to do with me? Father material? Look at me. Find some other idiot.”* Just like that, he vanished from her life.
What now? Who could she tell? Weeks passed, but she couldn’t bring herself to say a word.
Spring came. Time for lighter clothes. Emily stood in front of the mirror, struggling to fasten her jeans over her swollen waist. Her blouse strained at the buttons.
*”You’ve put on weight,”* came her mother’s voice behind her. Emily flinched. *”Wait—”* Her mother turned her sharply, gasped, clutched her own throat.
*”Who was it? How far along? Why didn’t you say anything?”*
Screaming, insults, chasing her through the flat with a tea towel. Then, finally, holding each other on the sofa, weeping. Too late for anything but acceptance.
She finished school, didn’t go to uni. In late September, she gave birth to a boy—his father’s sharp features stamped onto his tiny face.
When Jack was older, her mother pulled strings to get her a job at the council offices. Emily hated it. Endless complaints, threats, demands. She took extra shifts scrubbing floors, wiping windows—anything to keep him fed, clothed, in nursery.
Jack was an easy child, never gave her trouble. She denied herself everything so he’d never feel unloved, uncared for.
Then he started secondary school. Her mother fell ill. Eight months later, she was gone. Emily took another job—cleaning offices late into the night. She came home numb.
And then adolescence hit. Jack grew sullen, snapped when she asked about school. She knew she had to keep an eye on him—one wrong step, and he could fall in with the wrong crowd. But by evening, she barely had the strength to cook dinner, let alone pry.
Lately, she noticed bruises on his arms. *”Just fell in PE,”* he muttered.
Then she saw him with a girl—pierced nose, dyed crimson hair, drowning in an oversized hoodie. Maybe she was nice. Maybe it was just fashion. But something gnawed at her.
She tried to talk to him. He snarled, locked himself in his room. What could she do? Forbid him? Scream? With teenage love, it was better to wait it out. But her heart ached.
That evening, she trudged home, legs stiff with fatigue. Through the trees, the windows of their flat were dark. Jack wasn’t there.
She climbed the stairs, clutching the grocery bag until her fingers burned. Then—footsteps. Tom, Jack’s mate, nearly knocked her over.
*”Tom? What’s wrong?”*
He skidded to a stop, hesitated. Then: *”Jack’s not here? Then he’s with them.”*
*”What? Who? What’s happened?”*
*”His girl—Lily—she dared him. Jump between the roofs. The lads are filming it. I was gonna warn him, but—”*
*”Where?”*
*”The estates!”* He pelted downstairs.
Emily’s fingers loosened. The bag hit the ground, groceries spilling. A carton of milk split open, white pooling on the steps.
A neighbour’s door opened. A man stepped out—took in the mess, her panic. *”You alright? Did someone push you?”*
*”No—my son. His friend said he’s—oh God—they’re on the rooftops. They want him to jump.”* She swayed.
*”You stay here. I’ll go.”* He shoved the groceries into her arms and ran.
Emily numbly carried the bags inside, filled a bucket, scrubbed the milk from the stairs. A nosy neighbour with a tiny dog sneered. *”Taking up cleaning now?”*
She didn’t answer.
Back home, she stared out the window, straining to see the distant rooftops. Should she call the police? What if they didn’t believe her?
Her gaze landed on a small paper icon stuck to the fridge—her mother’s, from church. The Virgin’s eyes bore into her, full of sorrow.
*”Please,”* she whispered. *”Save him.”*
Then—knocking.
Jack stood there, hood up, head bowed. The neighbour behind him.
*”He’s safe.”* The man nudged Jack forward. *”Got there in time. Think next time, yeah? Love’s not worth dying for.”*
Emily grabbed her son, held him tight. The man cleared his throat. *”Starts training with me tomorrow. Five PM.”*
*”Training?”*
*”Self-defence. Keep him out of trouble.”*
When he left, Jack mumbled into her shoulder, *”His name’s Liam.”*
She wiped her face. *”Hungry?”*
Later, sleepless, she crept to Jack’s room. Moonlight spilled over his face, peaceful at last. She crossed herself softly, closed the door.
Weeks passed. Jack trained. He met her after work, carried the shopping. They talked again.
Then one evening—*”Mum, Liam says you’re pretty. Just dress nicer.”*
She stiffened. *”Ashamed of me?”*
*”No! I think he likes you.”*
So she bought a new dress, wore a bit of mascara.
One day, she bumped into Liam on the stairs.
*”Day off tomorrow?”* he asked.
*”Yes?”*
*”Cinema. All three of us.”*
That night, she noticed fresh scrapes on Jack’s knuckles.
*”Fighting?”*
*”Not scared anymore,”* he said, hugging her like a man.
Bad times don’t last forever. One day, the storm passes. The house grows quiet. And love—love comes to those who wait.
