Helen couldn’t settle. Little Emily had drifted off in her arms, yet she lingered by the window, unable to tear herself away. An hour had slipped by while she stared into the courtyard.
Just a few hours earlier, her beloved husband, Anthony, had come home from work. Helen had been in the kitchen, waiting, but he never joined her. When she stepped into the living room, she found him packing his things.
“Where are you going?” she asked, bewildered.
“I’m leaving. Leaving you for the woman I love.”
“Anthony, this isn’t funny. Did something happen at work? Are you going on a business trip?”
“Why can’t you understand?” he snapped. “I’m tired of you. It’s always Emily with you—you don’t even see me anymore. You hardly take care of yourself.”
“Don’t shout—you’ll wake her.”
“There—you’re thinking of her again. Your husband is walking out, and you—”
“A real man wouldn’t abandon his wife and child,” Helen murmured before retreating to Emily’s room.
She knew his temper. If she pushed now, it would only erupt into a row. Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let him see them. She scooped Emily from her cot and carried her to the kitchen—a place Anthony wouldn’t follow, nothing of his to take there.
Through the window, she watched him climb into his car and drive off without so much as a glance back. Still, she couldn’t move from the spot. Some part of her hoped his car would reappear, that he’d laugh it off as a cruel joke. But it didn’t happen.
Sleep eluded her all night. There was no one to call, no one to tell of her shattered world. Her mother had long since stopped caring, relieved when Helen married and fading from her life as though she’d never existed. Her brother, the golden child, still lived at home with his own growing family—how could she impose now? Friends, just as buried in motherhood as she was, wouldn’t know what to say.
Dawn crept in before exhaustion finally claimed her. She tried calling Anthony once, but he rejected the call. His reply was blunt: *Don’t bother me again.*
Emily’s fussing snapped her back. She couldn’t afford to crumble. He was gone—fine. She still had her daughter to care for. She had to think ahead.
She checked her purse and bank account and nearly choked. Even if she begged the landlady for five more days until her benefits came through, it wouldn’t be enough. They still needed to eat. Remote work might’ve helped, but Anthony had taken his laptop.
Two weeks of paid rent remained—time to find a solution, and fast. But every call to her contacts ended the same: no one would hire a woman with a baby. Even mopping floors required childcare, and she had no one to watch Emily. Moving somewhere cheaper wouldn’t solve it—they were already in the cheapest flat she could find. Returning to her mother’s was the only option, but with her brother, his wife, and their twins crammed into a two-bedroom, where would she and Emily fit?
When she told the landlady she’d leave at the month’s end, dread coiled in her stomach. She’d checked lodging houses—filthy, with neighbours no one would wish to live near. She’d pleaded with Anthony for help, but he’d blocked her, ignoring even her messages.
Five days remained. She packed what little they owned, staying busy to keep despair at bay. Then, a knock at the door.
Standing in the hallway was Valerie—her mother-in-law.
*More trouble?* Helen wondered, stepping aside to let her in.
They’d never been close. From the moment they met, Valerie had made it clear Helen wasn’t good enough for her son. The passive-aggressive digs about dust and meals “only fit for pigs” had been endless—until Emily’s birth, when Valerie had sneered that the baby “wasn’t their blood” and demanded a paternity test. Only at six months did she soften, finally seeing traces of Anthony in Emily’s face.
Anthony had always excused her: “Mum raised me alone—she’s just protective.” Helen endured it, never asking for her help. Yet here Valerie stood, after he’d left. Here to gloat?
She didn’t care anymore.
“Pack your things at once,” Valerie ordered. “You and Emily shouldn’t be here.”
Helen blinked. “I don’t understand.”
“There’s nothing *to* understand. You’re coming with me.”
“To *yours?*”
“Where else? That hovel your mother calls home, crammed to the rafters? I only just learned of this today—that fool told me. I’ve three bedrooms. There’s room.”
With no choice left, Helen agreed.
Fear prickled as they entered Valerie’s home. But she showed them to a room—Helen’s and Emily’s now. Once the suitcases were half-unpacked and Emily asleep, Helen hesitated in the kitchen doorway.
“Listen,” Valerie began, “I know we’ve never been close. But I hope you’ll try to forgive me.”
“You just wanted the best for your son.”
Valerie scoffed. “Best? I was selfish. Today, he called and confessed everything.” Her voice wavered. “Forgive me for raising such a son. I don’t know where I went wrong. His father left when he was three months old—he *knew* how hard it was for me. And still, he did the same.” She exhaled. “Stay as long as you need.”
Helen never imagined Valerie would side with her. Words failed her—tears splashed onto the table instead.
“None of that,” Valerie chided.
“They’re happy tears.”
“Don’t waste them. Consider this me making amends. We’ll manage. When you return to work, I’ll mind Emily.”
From that day, they became inseparable. Valerie still had her sharpness, but she reined it in, offering gentle advice rather than barbs.
Now, it was Emily’s first birthday. Balloons bobbed in the living room, the scent of apple pie sweetening the air. Emily toddled towards them, then plopped down, giggling.
“Look, Helen—our first steps!” Valerie beamed, scooping her up.
As they sat to eat, the doorbell rang. Valerie answered—and froze.
Anthony stood there, some woman beside him.
“Mum,” he said flatly, stepping inside.
“Hello, son. To what do we owe this?”
“I can’t visit my own mother?”
“You’ve not visited in five months. What’s changed?”
“Rent’s too steep. Angie and I thought we’d move in.”
“Angie?” Valerie’s voice sharpened. “And who is this?”
Anthony faltered. “Mum—”
“I’ve no space. We’re full already.”
“You shacking up with someone?”
“If I were, it’s no concern of yours. Watch your tongue.”
Anthony pushed past—and froze at the sight of Helen and Emily at the table, the balloons, the cake.
“Son, you’re not welcome here.” Valerie’s voice was steel. “That’s your *wife*—until tomorrow’s hearing, which you won’t attend. And that’s your daughter, celebrating her first birthday. Which you forgot.”
“I thought we were divorced already. Besides, how do I even know—”
“If you’d bothered to show up, you would’ve known. But it’s done. This is *their* home now. If you doubt she’s yours, test her—you’ll only waste money. Now *leave.*”
“Mum,” Anthony said quietly, “if I walk out now, I won’t come back.”
Valerie said nothing. She pointed to the door.
Later, as Emily slept, Helen found her in the kitchen.
“Mum… are you all right? Should I go? He’s still your son.”
“Hen,” Valerie sighed, “he is. But no man treats his child this way. Wives come and go—children don’t. He *knew* what we endured. I won’t forgive him till he understands.”
Four years passed.
“Come on,” Valerie teased, “how long will you hide this man from me?”
Helen flushed. She hadn’t realised Valerie guessed.
“Blushing like a schoolgirl! Bring him round.”
“You’re… sure?”
“As long as he’s good to you and Emily, I’m happy. So—introduce us.”
Valerie stood proud at Helen and Darren’s wedding. He was steady, kind—it showed in how he loved Helen and treated Emily as his own.
“Don’t think this means I won’t dote on Emily anymore,” Valerie warned.
“Mum,” Helen laughed, “I’d never dream it.”
When Helen and Darren had a son, Valerie declared him her grandson without hesitation. By then, Helen had long called her “Mum”—her own mother had never been half so closeYears later, as Emily blew out the candles on her eighteenth birthday, surrounded by love and laughter, Valerie wiped away a quiet tear, grateful for the family she had chosen—and the one that had chosen her back.
