**Diary Entry**
*12th March, 2024*
“Please… give my son back to me. I’ll give you anything you want,” Emily whispered, her voice breaking with exhaustion.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic. Your father won’t waste away. He’s only forty-three. Do you really think he’ll mourn your mother forever? Hardly. Statistically, there are more single women than men. Some lonely woman will snatch him up before you know it. So just come with me to London—stop getting in the way of his new life. Or do you want him to be alone forever?”
They lived in a quiet town just outside London. In their final year of secondary school, Emily’s mother was hit by a car. She and her father were crushed by grief. The weight of the household fell onto Emily’s shoulders, but somehow, she kept up with everything—her studies, her responsibilities—and still managed top marks on her A-levels.
Charlotte, though, had always dreamt of leaving their little town behind for London. She pestered Emily to go with her.
“Dad’s still grieving. How can I leave him alone?” Emily refused.
“Oh, stop it. He’ll be fine. He’s not even old. Some woman will snap him up in no time. Stop clinging to him—come with me. Or do you want him to be miserable forever?”
The words stung, harsh and unfeeling. Still, Emily couldn’t deny there was truth in them. So, she spoke to her father.
“Go, love. Don’t worry about me. London’s not the other end of the world. If you don’t like it, you can always come back.”
And so, Emily went with Charlotte to London. She could’ve gone to university—her grades were good enough—but Charlotte barely scraped by, and Emily didn’t want to abandon her. Instead, they enrolled together in a teaching college. She’d do university later, part-time, once she was working. They squeezed into a tiny shared room in student housing.
At first, Emily visited her father every weekend. But after New Year’s, she noticed a change. He seemed lighter, well-kept. A pot of soup and some meat pies sat in the fridge. Had he actually cooked?
Blushing, he admitted their neighbour, Margaret, had brought them over. And, well… Emily reassured him. “You don’t have to hide it. I’m happy for you.” She guessed Margaret stayed away when she visited.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Just live your life—I don’t mind.”
Still, she visited less often, not wanting to intrude.
Meanwhile, Charlotte barely studied. She skipped lessons, spent nights clubbing, sometimes didn’t come back at all. Emily covered for her, helped her catch up.
“You’re throwing everything away. What if you’re kicked out? Or worse—what if you get pregnant?”
“Oh, stop nagging. I’m careful. Kids aren’t on my agenda. And you? Still holding hands with your precious Daniel?”
Charlotte barely scraped through her second-year exams—thanks to Emily. But lately, she’d been quiet, distracted.
“What’s wrong? Are you ill?” Emily asked on the train home.
“What’s wrong? I’m pregnant,” Charlotte snapped.
“I warned you—what now?”
“I’m not keeping it. Ask your dad for money—an abortion. My mum would kill me if she knew.”
“Are you mad? You said you were careful!”
“Couple of slip-ups. Just ask him, yeah?”
“Absolutely not. What if something goes wrong? Tell the father—make him step up.”
Charlotte bit her lip. “I did. He bolted. My mum raised me alone—always said not to make her mistakes. And here I am…” She turned to the window.
“She’ll come around. Once the baby’s here…”
“Right. You don’t know my mum. She’d disown me first. Emily, please—help me.”
Against her better judgment, Emily agreed—but she never asked her dad for money. She couldn’t. Maybe, just maybe, Charlotte would change her mind.
“You call yourself a friend? You’re a traitor!” Charlotte screamed.
But she never went through with the abortion—too afraid in their small town where everyone knew everyone. By September, it was too late anyway.
At Christmas, Charlotte stayed in London—her bump too obvious now. But then her mother showed up unannounced, as if sensing trouble. Charlotte ducked into another room, leaving Emily to lie.
“She’s working at a children’s home, getting experience,” Emily said, flushing.
Her mother sighed, left a bag of treats, and left.
“Why did you do that? She’s still your mum.”
“Yeah? And if she saw me like this? No thanks. Soon as it’s born, I’m leaving it at the hospital. What would I do with a baby?”
“You should’ve thought of that sooner,” Emily hissed.
“Oh, take it yourself if you care so much!” Charlotte spat. “Saint Emily, always so perfect.”
Late February. Emily woke to Charlotte groaning, curled up on her bed.
“Is it time?” She called an ambulance.
“Jenkins, just so you know—no babies in student housing,” the warden barked as they left.
Three days later, Charlotte returned alone.
“Where’s the baby? You left it there? How could you?”
“Leave me alone.” Charlotte rolled over.
A week later, she disappeared while Emily was in class. She called, but Charlotte just laughed. “Oh, don’t worry about me. You stick to studying, miss perfect.”
They never spoke again.
After college, Emily took the baby—Oliver—home. Her father and Margaret lived together, renting out Margaret’s old flat. But they cleared it for Emily and Oliver. Close, but not too close.
Four years passed.
Emily worked at a nursery, always near Oliver. One snowy afternoon, she scolded him for stomping through drifts. Then—
“Emily? Is that you? Been ages!”
A glamorous woman in a fur coat—Charlotte. A man stood beside her.
Emily froze.
“Not happy to see me?” Charlotte grinned. “This is my husband, Richard. And… your son?” She eyed Oliver. “So Daniel finally talked you into it?”
“He’ll catch a chill—we need to go.” Emily hurried Oliver away.
That night, her phone rang.
“Tell me the truth—is that my son? You took him, didn’t you?” Charlotte’s voice was sharp.
“He’s mine.”
“Liar. He looks just like his father. I know it’s him.”
Emily’s pulse raced. “He’s my son.”
“Meet me tomorrow. Five o’clock. Our old café.”
She went, terrified.
“Where’s Oliver?”
“He’s fine,” Charlotte said coolly. “But here’s the thing—I can’t have children now. Three miscarriages. Richard wants a son. His daughter’s sickly—barely sees. But Oliver’s healthy. Clever eyes…”
“You’re not taking him.”
“Really? We’ll see.”
Emily fled. For days, she jumped at every sound—but Charlotte didn’t return.
Then, one Friday, the nursery called.
“Your sister said you sprained your ankle—she picked Oliver up.”
Emily’s blood ran cold. She rushed to Charlotte’s mother—gone, back to London.
At the police station, the officer shrugged.
“She’s his mother. What’s the problem?”
“She abandoned him! Now she’s stolen him!”
“Calm down, or I’ll have you in a cell. London’s a needle in a haystack.”
Days crawled by. Emily barely slept, jumping at phantom cries. Then—
“Give him back!” Emily screamed into the phone.
“You ruined my life,” Charlotte hissed. “If it weren’t for you, I never would’ve had him. Richard made me call—said he’ll leave if I don’t return *your* son. Mine, really. But whatever.”
“Where is he?”
“Café. Alone.”
Emily sprinted. Inside, Oliver dashed to her.
“Mum!”
Behind them, chaos. Her father wrestled Charlotte as she shrieked, “He’s mine!”
“Let her go,” Emily whispered, clutching Oliver. “She’s suffered enough.”
Women’s friendships end over men—or sons. Charlotte gave birth and left him. Emily raised him, loved him.
And Oliver? He never understood. The strange woman took him to a big city, argued with her husband. He played with a quiet girl and missed his real mum—Emily. The one who fought for him. The one who never let go.
