“Lydia, how could you let this happen?” Valerie hissed, her voice tight with accusation as she stood in the dimly lit corridor of their shared flat. “You’re her mother! How can you just stand by and watch your daughter suffer like this?”
“Keep your voice down!” Lydia snapped, glancing nervously at the other doors lining the hallway. “You’ll wake the whole building with your shouting!”
“I don’t care! Everyone should see the kind of mother you are! Emma hasn’t left her room in weeks, barely eats—and you’re pretending nothing’s wrong?”
Lydia pressed her lips together, stormed into her room, and slammed the door. Valerie lingered for a moment, then huffed and retreated to her own flat.
Inside, the air was stuffy, thick with silence. Emma lay curled on her bed, facing the wall, feigning sleep. Lydia crossed to the window and threw it open. A crisp autumn gust rushed in, fluttering the curtains.
“Emma, love, it’s time for dinner,” she whispered.
No response. Lydia sat on the edge of the bed, the springs creaking under her weight.
“I know you’re awake. We need to talk.”
“What’s there to say?” Emma’s voice was hollow, muffled by the pillow. “It’s already over.”
“Over? Hardly. Life goes on. We have to figure something out.”
Emma twisted sharply to face her. Her eyes were swollen, cheeks stained with tears.
“Figure *what* out, Mum? He’s marrying someone else in a fortnight! That girl from uni—Sophie! And I was stupid enough to wait for him to finish his degree!”
“Oh, love, stop torturing yourself.” Lydia brushed a hand over Emma’s tangled hair. “If it wasn’t meant to be, it wasn’t. You’ll find someone else.”
“Someone *else*?” Emma sat up, her gaze eerily still. “Mum, you don’t understand. I’m—”
She choked, turning away again.
“What? Tell me what’s happened.”
“Nothing. It just hurts, that’s all.”
Lydia exhaled sharply and stood. “Fine. Rest for now. But you *will* eat tonight. You’re wasting away.”
She left to cook, the clatter of pans filling the flat. Emma stayed motionless, staring at the ceiling. A dull ache pulsed low in her stomach. She pressed a hand there, feeling the warmth beneath her thin nightdress.
“What are we going to do?” she whispered.
The scent of frying onions and potatoes drifted in, turning her stomach. Nausea had been her constant companion these past weeks.
That evening, Aunt Clara—Lydia’s younger sister, a nurse—arrived.
“So, how’s our patient?” she asked, shrugging off her coat.
“Still in bed, barely eating,” Lydia fretted. “She’s running me ragged.”
“Have you taken her to a doctor?”
“And drag her there? She won’t even get up.”
Aunt Clara marched into Emma’s room.
“Hello, love. How are we feeling?”
“Fine,” Emma muttered into the pillow.
“Sit up. Let me look at you.”
Emma reluctantly turned. Clara studied her face, checked her pulse.
“When did you last eat properly?”
“Dunno.”
“And your last period?”
Emma tensed, meeting her aunt’s sharp gaze.
“Can’t remember.”
“Think.”
“…Maybe two months ago?”
Clara’s frown deepened.
“Up. We’re going to the loo.”
“Why?”
“Just move.”
Emma swayed as she stood, her vision swimming.
“Whoa—” She gripped the wall.
“What’s wrong?”
“Dizzy.”
Clara steadied her, guiding her to the bathroom.
“Undress.”
“What?!”
“Do it.”
Shaking, Emma obeyed. Clara examined her, pressing gently on her abdomen.
“Right. Get dressed.”
Back in the room, Clara sat heavily on a chair.
“Emma, be honest. Did you sleep with that boy?”
Emma’s face burned.
“What?”
“You know what I mean. Were you intimate?”
Emma nodded.
“And protection?”
“He—he said he knew what he was doing, that he’d be careful—”
“Emma, you’re pregnant.”
The words hung like a death sentence. Emma went perfectly still.
“What?”
“You’re pregnant. About fourteen weeks.”
Emma buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. Clara pulled her close.
“Shh, now. Don’t cry.”
“What am I *supposed* to do?” Emma sobbed. “He’s *marrying* her! And I—I’m—”
“First, we confirm it properly. We’ll see a doctor tomorrow.”
“You won’t tell Mum?”
“Not yet.”
Aunt Clara left, but Emma didn’t sleep. Memories flashed—James promising to marry her after graduation, laughing as he kissed her, swearing he loved her.
The next morning, the doctor confirmed it. Fourteen weeks.
“What now?” Clara asked outside the clinic.
“I don’t know,” Emma whispered.
“You need to talk to him.”
“He won’t care. He loves *her*.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I *saw* them. The way he looks at her… It’s nothing like how he was with me.”
“Then you decide. Keep it or…”
“Or?”
“There are ways to end it.”
Emma flinched.
“That’s a sin.”
“Sin or not, think—can you raise a child alone?”
On the bus home, Emma stared at the grey sky. Inside her, life grew. And she had no idea what to do.
Lydia pounced the moment they returned.
“Well? What did the doctor say?”
“Anaemia,” Clara said smoothly. “She needs treatment.”
Emma retreated to her room, the lie clinging to her like smoke.
Later, her best friend Lucy visited.
“You’ve not been out in *weeks*,” Lucy pressed. “What’s wrong?”
Emma hesitated. “What if… someone got pregnant, and the bloke left?”
Lucy gasped. “Emma, are you—?”
“Just asking.”
Lucy exhaled. “I’d tell him. Make him face it.”
The next day, Emma steeled herself and went to James’s university. He froze when he saw her.
“Emma? What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
In the park, she blurted it out.
“I’m pregnant.”
James paled.
“That’s impossible. I was careful—”
“Not careful enough.”
He paced. “Are you *sure*?”
“Do you think I’d *lie*?”
“What do you want from me?”
“Nothing. I just thought you should know.”
“And what now?”
“Call off the wedding?”
James turned on her. “I *love* Sophie. It’s real with her.”
“And what about me?”
“I loved you too. But not like this.”
Emma stood, tears blurring her vision.
“Then I’ll handle it myself.”
She walked away, his calls fading behind her.
At home, Aunt Clara returned.
“Well?”
“He doesn’t care.”
“Bastard. And the baby?”
“Told me to ‘take care of it.’”
Clara’s lips thinned. “Then it’s your choice, love. But think hard—raising a child alone won’t be easy.”
Emma imagined telling Lydia. The scandal. The whispers.
“Is it… dangerous?”
“Not if done properly. But it’s expensive.”
“How much?”
“A thousand pounds.”
Emma shuddered. She’d saved that for her own wedding. The irony burned.
The next morning, she made her decision.
“I’ll do it.”
Clara arranged everything. They told Lydia it was appendicitis.
The procedure was quick. Lying in the hospital bed, Emma cried silently. The life inside her—gone.
A week later, she went home. Lydia fussed over her, oblivious.
Eventually, Emma returned to work, dated again. A year later, she met Daniel. They married, had children.
But the secret stayed. The child she’d carried for fourteen weeks. The choice she’d made at eighteen.
She never told a soul.
Sometimes, passing schools or parks, she’d see a child with James’s smile and wonder—*Could that have been mine?*
But those thoughts stayed locked away. Some secrets were too heavy to share.
