“Lydia Harper, how could you let this happen?” Mrs. Thompson from next door hissed, her voice trembling with anger in the narrow hallway of their shared flat. “You’re her mother! How can you stand by while your daughter wastes away?”
“Keep your voice down!” Lydia snapped, glancing at the other doors. “You’ll wake the whole building!”
“I don’t care! Everyone should know what kind of mother you are! Emily hasn’t left her room in weeks, barely touches a bite, and you act as if nothing’s wrong!”
Lydia pressed her lips into a thin line and stormed into her room, slamming the door. Mrs. Thompson lingered in the corridor before stalking off with a sharp huff.
The bedroom was stifling and silent. Emily lay curled on the bed, facing the wall, pretending to sleep. Her mother marched to the window and threw it open. Cool autumn air rushed in, rustling the thin curtains.
“Emily, love. It’s time for lunch,” Lydia said softly.
Her daughter didn’t move. Lydia sat on the edge of the bed.
“I know you’re not asleep. We need to talk.”
“About what?” Emily mumbled into the pillow, voice thick. “It’s over.”
“Nothing’s ever truly over. Life goes on. We have to decide what to do.”
Emily twisted to face her, cheeks hollow, eyes red and swollen.
“Decide what, Mum? He’s marrying her next week! That posh Charlotte from uni, while I sat there waiting like an idiot!”
“Darling, you can’t torture yourself like this,” Lydia whispered, smoothing her daughter’s tangled hair. “If it wasn’t meant to be, then it wasn’t. There’ll be someone else.”
“Someone else?” Emily sat up, her stare hollow. “You don’t understand. I…”
Her voice faltered. She turned away again.
“What, love? Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing. It just hurts.”
Lydia sighed and stood.
“Rest then. But you’ll eat something tonight. You’re skin and bone.”
She left, and Emily lay still, staring at the ceiling. A dull ache twisted in her belly. She placed a hand over it, fingertips pressing through the thin nightdress.
“What are we going to do?” she whispered.
The clatter of pots and the sizzle of frying onions drifted from the kitchen. The smell made Emily queasy, just as it had for weeks.
That evening, Aunt Margaret arrived—Lydia’s younger sister, the only one in the family with medical training.
“Well, Lydia, how’s our patient?” she asked, unwrapping her scarf in the cramped hallway.
“Still in bed, refusing to eat. She’ll be the death of me.”
“Has she seen a doctor?”
“And how? She won’t even get up.”
Margaret strode into Emily’s room.
“Hello, sweetheart. You look dreadful.”
“I’m fine,” Emily muttered.
“Turn over and let me look at you.”
Grudgingly, Emily obeyed. Margaret studied her, pinched her wrist, checked her pulse.
“When did you last eat properly?”
“Dunno.”
“And your cycle? When was it?”
Emily froze, then met her aunt’s sharp gaze.
“I don’t remember.”
“Think.”
“Two months. Maybe longer.”
Margaret’s frown deepened.
“Up. We’re going to the loo.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Emily swayed as she stood, her vision swimming. She gripped the wall.
“Bloody hell.”
“What?”
“I’m lightheaded.”
Margaret guided her to the bathroom and shut the door.
“Strip.”
“Aunt Maggie—”
“Do it.”
Hands shaking, Emily undressed. A brief, clinical examination followed.
“Get dressed.”
Back in the bedroom, Margaret sat heavily on the chair, measuring her niece with a grim stare.
“Emily, tell me the truth. Did you sleep with that boy?”
Heat flooded Emily’s face.
“What?”
“You know what I mean. Were you intimate?”
A tiny nod.
“Yes.”
“Did you use protection?”
“He said—he knew what he was doing.”
“I see.” Margaret exhaled slowly. “Emily, you’re pregnant.”
The words hung like a death sentence. Emily sat motionless, uncomprehending.
“What?”
“You’re pregnant. Three months along, at least.”
Emily covered her face and sobbed. Margaret pulled her close, stroking her hair.
“Hush, love. Hush.”
“What do I do? He’s marrying her! I—I—”
“First, we confirm it. Tomorrow, we go to the clinic. Then we’ll see.”
“Don’t tell Mum.”
“Not yet.”
Margaret left, and Emily sat in the dark, thoughts spinning—memories of Daniel, his promises, his kisses. The future they’d planned before he chose someone else.
The next morning, the doctor confirmed it. Fourteen weeks.
“Well?” Margaret asked outside the clinic.
“I don’t know.”
“You need to talk to him. He might change his mind.”
Emily shook her head.
“He won’t. He loves her.”
“Then you decide. Keep it or… there are ways to end it.”
Emily flinched.
“That’s a sin.”
“Sin or not, you’ve one life to live. Think—can you raise a child alone?”
The bus ride home was silent. Emily watched the grey sky through the window, the ache in her belly no longer just grief.
Back home, Lydia noticed at once.
“What happened? Where were you?”
“A check-up,” Margaret lied. “Anaemia. She needs treatment.”
Lydia muttered about how pale she’d been. Emily retreated to bed while they spoke in hushed tones in the kitchen.
Later, her best friend Sophie visited.
“Em, what’s going on? You’ve been shut away for ages.”
Emily hesitated, then whispered,
“Sophie… what if a girl got pregnant, and the bloke left her?”
Sophie’s eyes widened.
“You’re joking.”
“Just—what would you do?”
“Tell him. Make him face it.”
Emily said nothing more.
The next day, she waited outside Daniel’s university. He froze when he saw her.
“Emily? What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
“About what?”
She led him to a bench in the park.
“Daniel… I’m pregnant.”
He paled.
“You’re joking.”
“Fourteen weeks. It’s yours.”
“But—I was careful!”
“Not careful enough.”
He paced, raking a hand through his hair.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing. I just thought you should know.”
“And then what?”
“Maybe don’t marry Charlotte?”
He turned on her.
“I love her, Em. It’s serious.”
“And me?”
“I cared about you. But this—it’s different.”
Emily stood, tears burning.
“Right. Then I’ve got nothing else to say.”
“Wait—”
But she was already walking away.
At home, she locked herself in her room and cried until her throat raw. That night, Margaret returned.
“Well? What did he say?”
“Nothing useful.”
“The bastard,” Margaret muttered. “And the baby?”
“Said I should ‘take care of it.’”
Margaret exhaled sharply.
“Then it’s your choice. Think hard—raising a child alone won’t be easy.”
Emily imagined telling her mother. The scandal. The whispers.
“Aunt Maggie… if I ended it… is it dangerous?”
“Not if done properly. But it’s expensive.”
“How much?”
“Eight hundred quid.”
Emily shuddered. She’d saved that much—for a wedding that would never happen.
The next morning, her decision was made.
“Do it,” she whispered.
Margaret arranged everything. They told Lydia it was appendicitis.
The procedure was quick.
Afterward, Emily lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. It was over. No baby. No future she’d once dreamed of.
She wept silently, grieving a motherhood that would never be.
A week later, she was home. Lydia fussed over her, clueless. Soon, the news came—Daniel and Charlotte married in a lavish ceremony.
“Gorgeous couple,” Sophie gushed. “He looked so happy.”
“Good for him,” Emily said flatly.
And she meant it. She didn’t regret Daniel.
Only the choice she’d made alone.
Years passed. Emily married a kind man named James, had children, built a life.
But one secret remained—buried deep, never shared.
Not with James. Not with her grown children. Not even with Sophie.
Only sometimes, when she passed a playground and saw a child with Daniel’s smile, her chest tightened.
*What if that was mine?*
But she never spoke it aloud.
Some secrets are too heavy to share.
