Teenage Troubles
Emily trudged home, exhausted and drained. One hand clutched her handbag, the other a plastic bag of groceries she’d picked up on the way. Her legs were jelly. She wanted to just sit right there on the pavement and not move another inch. But inside, Max was waiting—her son, the only thing that gave her life meaning. Without him, she’d have packed it all in ages ago.
Some people were born with silver spoons in their mouths; life handed them everything on a platter. Others, like Emily, were born under a dark cloud. Back in Year 11, at a classmate’s birthday party, she’d met a guy two years older—tall, confident, reckless. She fell for him hard.
Emily wasn’t a classic beauty, but she was pretty in that uncomplicated way girls are at seventeen—clear grey eyes, straight chestnut hair, a slim figure with just the right curves.
That January, her mum was hospitalised with pneumonia, leaving the flat to Emily and her boyfriend. And—well, you can guess what happened next. She gave in to his sweet talk, his promises, the easy “I love you”s that boys her age tossed around like confetti.
When she realised she was pregnant, she ran straight to him.
*”What’s it got to do with me? Father material? Look at me. Find some other mug,”* he said—and vanished from her life as suddenly as he’d appeared.
What now? Who could she turn to? Weeks passed, and still she couldn’t bring herself to tell her mum.
Spring came, and with it, lighter clothes. Emily stood before the mirror, struggling to fasten her jeans over her rounding waist. Her blouse strained at the buttons.
*”You’ve put on weight,”* her mum said behind her. Emily jumped. *”Let’s have a look—”* Her mum spun her around, gasped, and clapped a hand to her mouth.
*”Whose is it? How far along? Why didn’t you say something?”*
Screaming, insults, a rolled-up towel waved in fury—then, finally, the two of them collapsed on the sofa, hugging and crying. It was too late for anything except to go through with it.
Emily finished her GCSEs but didn’t bother with uni. In late September, she gave birth to a boy with the same roguish glint in his eye as his feckless father.
When Max was older, her mum pulled strings to get her a job at the local council offices. Emily hated it—endless complaints, threats from residents, headaches by the bucketload. She took on extra evening shifts, scrubbing offices and corridors just to cover Max’s nursery fees.
Max grew up quiet, never giving her or his nan any trouble. Emily pinched pennies everywhere except on him—toys, clothes, love, he never went without.
Then secondary school hit, and puberty arrived like a tornado. Max turned prickly, secretive, snapping whenever she asked about his day. She knew she ought to keep a closer eye on him—God only knew what he might get dragged into—but by the time she dragged herself home, she only had energy to slap together dinner and mutter, *”How was school?”*
Lately, she’d noticed scratches on his face, bruises on his arms. *”Fell in PE,”* he’d grunt.
Then, one day, she spotted him with a girl—tangled in a hoodie four sizes too big, baggy trousers, neon-pink hair, a nose ring. Maybe she was nice. Maybe it was just the fashion. Still, Emily’s stomach twisted.
She tried to talk to Max. He snarled, slammed his bedroom door. What now? Banning him would only make it worse. But her heart ached. Left alone all day—what if he made the same mistakes? Worse ones?
That evening, she staggered home, squinting through the trees to spot their flat’s lit windows. Darkness. Max wasn’t there.
She hauled herself upstairs, head drooping like a worn-out cart horse. The shopping bag handles cut into her fingers. She barely had time to press against the wall when a blur shot past—Jake, Max’s mate.
*”Jake?”* she called. *”Where’s the fire?”*
He skidded to a stop, hesitated, then bounded back up.
*”Miss Emily…”* He panted. *”Thought I—Max isn’t home? Then he’s with them.”*
*”What? Who’s ‘them’?”*
*”Overheard some lads talking. Max’s girlfriend—Tasha—she dared him. Jump between the roofs of the tower blocks. ‘Prove you love me.’ They’re filming it, gonna post it. I tried to warn him, but…”*
Emily’s grip loosened. The bag hit the stairs, groceries tumbling. A milk carton burst, white rivers streaming down the steps.
A door creaked open. A bloke stepped out—late twenties, gym-fit. *”You alright? Mugged?”* He started gathering her shopping.
*”No—my son—Jake says he’s on the roof, dared to jump—”*
*”Right. You stay here.”* He shoved the bags into her arms and sprinted off.
Emily numbly tidied up, mopped the milk.
*”Cleaning the stairs now, love? How much they paying you?”* a neighbour tutted, yapping terrier in tow.
Emily didn’t answer.
Back home, she paced, wrung her hands. A tiny paper icon of the Virgin Mary, stuck to the fridge by a magnet, caught her eye. Her mum had brought it home from church.
*”Please,”* Emily whispered. *”Stop them. Save my boy. I can’t lose him.”*
The doorbell nearly stopped her heart. There stood Max, hood up, face hidden—and behind him, the neighbour from flat 2B.
*”Alive. Thank God,”* Emily choked.
*”All yours,”* the man said, nudging Max forward. *”Got there in time. Ever think about your mum? Love’s one thing, but suicide? No outlet for that energy? Could’ve helped her instead—working herself to the bone.”*
Emily realised this was a lecture half-delivered on the walk home. She pulled Max close.
*”Tomorrow, five sharp. Gym gear,”* the man told Max.
*”What? Where?”* Emily blinked.
*”Kid’s got too much time and energy. Needs channelling. I’ll teach him to handle himself—stop him listening to idiots.”*
*”Thank you. Fancy a cuppa?”*
*”Next time.”*
Once they were alone, Emily clung to Max.
*”I’m sorry, love. I failed you. No dad, no one to talk to—”*
*”Mum, stop.”*
*”I should’ve…”*
*”’S not your fault.”* His voice cracked.
*”It’s over now. You’re safe.”* She sniffed. *”Go on—train with him. Seems decent.”*
*”His name’s Chris,”* Max mumbled.
Later, buttering bread in the kitchen, Emily glanced at the Virgin Mary. *”Thank you,”* she murmured.
Max took to training like a duck to water. He started meeting her after work, carrying bags, chatting. Peace returned.
*”Mum… Chris said you’re pretty. Just dress a bit… frumpy. You should get a new dress. Shoes.”*
*”Ashamed of me?”*
*”Nah. Just… think he fancies you. Asked loads about you.”*
So she listened. A dab of mascara, a nicer blouse.
*”You do look young. Chris said no way you’re over thirty,”* Max said one evening.
*”Chris says, Chris thinks…”* She pretended to pout. (*Thirty? Used to get twenty-five!*)
One day, she bumped into Chris on the stairs.
*”He’s a good lad,”* Chris said. *”Teenagers do daft things. You free tomorrow?”*
*”Why?”*
*”Cinema. All three of us. When’s the last time you went?”*
*”Took Max to a cartoon when he was six.”*
*”Sorted. I’ll book tickets.”*
That night, she spotted scrapes on Max’s knuckles.
*”You fought?”*
*”Don’t worry. Chris trained me. I can handle myself now.”* He hugged her—properly, like a man.
Bad times don’t last forever. One day, the storm passes, the house grows calm. And love, when you least expect it, walks right in.
