Emma turned the key slowly and stepped quietly into the flat. No matter how hard she tried to shut the door silently, the lock still clicked. Without turning on the lights, she slipped off her shoes and tiptoed toward her room—until the sharp snap of a light switch behind her cut through the silence like a gunshot.
“Emma, where were you? Why so late? I rang Daisy. You lied to me,” came her mum’s voice.
Emma froze, took a sharp breath, and turned around.
“Why aren’t you asleep?” she shot back.
“How could I sleep when you weren’t home? I was worried,” her mum said, eyes tight with concern.
“I’m an adult, Mum. Stop babysitting me,” Emma muttered.
“Oh yes, very grown up,” her mum huffed, waving a hand before retreating to her room—though she left the door ajar.
Emma hesitated, then followed, sinking onto the sofa beside her.
“Sorry, Mum. Lost track of time.”
Her mother looked exhausted, the harsh ceiling light carving out the wrinkles and shadows under her eyes—eyes full of quiet reproach.
“I wasn’t alone. I was with Tom. We went to the cinema, then just walked. Don’t worry about me.”
“Tom?”
“Yeah. Met him two weeks ago. He’s… interesting. Knows loads.” A smile curled at Emma’s lips as she leaned into her mum, resting her head on her shoulder.
“So last time—you were with him, not Daisy?”
“Sorry.”
“I get it, love, but why lie? Why not just tell me? Is he at uni too? Will you be studying together?”
“No, he’s already graduated. Works now,” Emma answered quickly.
“He’s older? Oh, sweetheart…” Her mum sighed, and Emma braced herself—but instead, her mum just asked, “Will you introduce me?”
“Course. You’ll like him.”
“Didn’t even realise how grown you’ve become.” Her mum gave her a sad smile. “It’s late. Go to bed.”
“Night, Mum.” Emma kissed her cheek and slipped away to her room.
Under the covers, she stared at the ceiling, replaying every word, every kiss, lost in dreams…
When she woke, her mum had already left for work. Emma washed up, ate the breakfast left out, and grabbed her phone.
“Hey, at work already?” she chirped.
“Yeah.” Tom’s voice was clipped.
“Bad time?” She tensed at the coldness in his tone.
“Yep. I’ll call back later.” The line went dead.
“You’ll call *you* back?” Emma blinked at the blank screen.
“Probably someone there,” she reasoned, waiting for his call. She tried reading—words blurred meaninglessly—then gave up. The telly offered nothing. Ringing Daisy, she suggested ice cream in the park.
Mid-lick, gushing about love, her phone buzzed.
“Sorry, Em. Terrible timing earlier. Swamped. Fancy meeting tonight?”
“Yeah!” Emma beamed.
Later, she told him, “Mum wants to meet you.”
Tom stiffened. “You told her about us? She’s okay with it?” His eyes searched hers.
“Why wouldn’t she be?”
“It’s early days… Meeting parents means serious commitment.”
“And we’re *not* serious?” Emma’s chest tightened.
“I *am* serious about you.” He pulled her close, his face hidden. “Just… mums grill you, yeah? Feels like an interrogation.”
“How many girlfriends’ mums have you met?” She poked his ribs playfully.
“Couple.”
“Nothing to hide, then? No Bluebeard’s chamber full of exes?” She laughed. “You’re not *married*, are you?”
“God, no. Where’d *that* come from?”
“Alright. Where to?” She changed the subject.
“Can’t stay long—Mum wants me home early. Just a walk?” He kissed her, and every doubt melted.
Arm in arm, he whispered how he’d missed her, dreamed of her, never felt this way—promised once his mum was better, he’d invite her over. After his dad died, phone calls spooked her, so he kept his switched off at home…
Emma pictured their future—her waiting, him bringing flowers. Enough to make her heart skip.
“Saturday, then? Mum’s making her chocolate cake,” she asked finally.
His kiss was answer enough.
Saturday came—Tom rang. His mum was poorly, paramedics over, he couldn’t leave her…
Emma slumped.
“It’s fine,” her mum said. “Kind he cares. Means he’ll care for *you*. Cake won’t eat itself.”
Emma forced a bite, restless. She’d imagined a whole day together. Daisy was away—nothing felt right.
Following her mum’s advice, she wandered out. Late summer clung to the air—too warm to waste. Buying an ice cream, she unwrapped it—then froze.
Tom pushed a pram, a blonde beside him. Emma ducked behind a tree, watching. They passed. Her ice cream dripped. She tossed it, trudged home swallowing tears, scrambling for excuses—but none fit. If not his wife, *who*?
“Watch where you’re going!” a woman snapped.
“Sorry.” Emma walked blindly.
Then it hit her—if he’s out, his mum isn’t home. She dialled—his phone was off.
“Love, you look awful,” her mum fretted when she returned.
“Just tired.” Emma fled to her room.
Later, her mum perched on her bed. Emma lay stiff, arms crossed.
“What’s wrong? Did he hurt you?”
Emma turned to the wall. Her mum sighed. Lately, Emma barely spoke, locked her hurts away.
Winter blew in—decorations, shopping. Her mum asked about New Year’s plans. Emma barely hoped to see Tom.
“Dunno,” she snapped.
“Love, talk to me. You’re grown, but you shouldn’t face this alone. One wrong step now…”
Emma looked up—eyes full of pain.
“I’m pregnant.”
“*Christ*.” Her mum clutched her chest. “Does he know?”
Emma shook her head.
“*Tell* him.”
They sat crying, holding each other till dawn.
Next day, Emma braved his block. His phone—dead. She waited ages by the door before an old man emerged.
“The Wilsons? Flat 7, top floor, last left. You family?”
She darted in, climbed the stairs. A baby wailed inside. She rang.
“Doctor?” A woman’s voice—the blonde—opened the door.
“Thought you were the GP. You want?”
“Does Tom live here?”
“Yeah—” A crash, louder crying. The woman rushed off, leaving Emma in the hall.
She closed the door, stepped back. *His wife. His child.* No sick mum—all lies. Lies about love, about *them*.
Now *she* carried *his* child.
Nearly hit by cars, she checked her phone—Tom’s text:
**”Why’d you come? Lost the plot?”**
She sobbed.
Home, she collapsed on a stool.
“Emma? That you? Help me trim the tree!” her mum called.
Emma locked herself in the bathroom, ran the tap. Hot. Steaming. In the cabinet—her dad’s old razor. Mum never threw it out.
She sat in the water, blade in hand…
The tree twinkled. Her mum knocked.
“Emma? Open up. You okay? *Emma!*”
Water roared.
Neighbours broke the door.
Emma floated in red.
—
She woke, squinting. Her mum gripped her hand.
“You *lived*. Oh, love…”
“Sorry…” Emma wept.
Exams came, barely scraped. Tom blocked. Time numbed the pain.
After summer term, she and her mum booked a seaside break. There, she met a bloke—same city, next street over, different uni.
She laughed again—almost like before.
Almost.
Sometimes, shadows flickered across her face.
But it passed. *Everything does.*
**”You didn’t know. Couldn’t have. No one shows you the script at the start—how love curdles into lies, waiting, broken vows. How you wake up tangled in someone else’s life…
… Run. If you can’t run—crawl. Before they break your wings for good.”**
