“Lydia Whitaker, how could you allow this?” shouted their neighbor Margaret Davies, waving her hands in the narrow hallway of the shared flat. “You’re her mother! How can you stand by so indifferently while your daughter suffers?”
“Quiet, for heaven’s sake!” Lydia hissed, glancing around. “You’ll wake the whole house with your shouting!”
“I don’t care! Everyone should know what kind of mother you are! Emily hasn’t left her room in months, barely eats, and you pretend nothing’s wrong!”
Lydia pressed her lips together and stormed into her room, slamming the door. Margaret lingered in the hall a moment longer before retreating to her own quarters with a dismissive huff.
The room was stifling and silent. Emily lay on her bed, facing the wall, feigning sleep. Her mother crossed to the window and flung it open. A crisp autumn breeze rushed in, stirring the curtains.
“Emily, love, get up. It’s time for lunch,” Lydia said softly.
Emily didn’t move. Her mother sat on the edge of the bed.
“I know you’re awake. Let’s talk, shall we?”
“What is there to say?” Emily muttered without turning. “It’s over.”
“It may seem so, but life goes on. We must decide what to do.”
Emily rolled over sharply. Her face was pale, eyes swollen from crying.
“Decide what, Mum? What? He’s marrying that Charlotte from university next week! And I was foolish enough to wait for him to graduate!”
“Darling, why torture yourself this way?” Lydia stroked her daughter’s hair. “Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be. You’ll find someone else.”
“Someone else?” Emily sat up, staring blankly. “Mum, you don’t understand. I’m…”
She hesitated and turned away again.
“What is it, love? Tell me.”
“Nothing. It just hurts, that’s all.”
Lydia sighed and stood.
“Rest, then. But you’ll eat supper tonight. You’ve grown so thin.”
Her mother left to prepare lunch. Emily lay still, gazing at the ceiling. A dull ache throbbed in her stomach. She pressed a hand against it through her nightdress.
“What do we do now?” she whispered.
The clatter of pots and the sizzle of frying onions drifted from the kitchen. The smell made her nauseous, as it had for weeks.
That evening, her aunt Clara arrived—her mother’s younger sister, a nurse at the local hospital and the only one in the family with medical training.
“How’s our patient, Lydia?” Clara asked, hanging her coat.
“Still in bed, won’t eat a thing. She’s wearing me to the bone,” Lydia admitted.
“Has she seen a doctor?”
“She refuses to get up.”
Clara stepped into Emily’s room.
“Hello, poppet. How are you?”
“Fine,” Emily mumbled.
Clara frowned. “Turn over and let me look at you.”
Emily reluctantly obeyed. Clara examined her face, took her wrist, and checked her pulse.
“When did you last eat properly?”
“I don’t remember.”
“And your last monthly?”
Emily flinched and looked up.
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
“Ages ago. Two months, maybe.”
Clara’s expression darkened.
“Up you get. We’re going to the bathroom.”
“Why?”
“Just come.”
Emily dragged herself upright. Her legs trembled, her vision swam.
“Oh—” She gripped the wall.
“What is it?”
“Dizzy.”
Clara steadied her and shut the bathroom door behind them.
“Undress.”
“Aunt Clara, why?”
“Do as I say.”
Emily obeyed. Clara examined her, pressing gently on her abdomen and chest.
“Right. Get dressed.”
Back in the bedroom, Clara sat stiffly on a chair, studying her niece.
“Emily, be honest. Did you and that boy…?”
Emily flushed crimson.
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. Were you intimate?”
Emily lowered her head and nodded.
“Yes.”
“Did you take precautions?”
“He said he knew what he was doing—that it was safe.”
“I see. Emily… you’re pregnant.”
The words hung in the air like a sentence. Emily sat frozen, uncomprehending.
“What?” she finally whispered.
“You’re expecting. About three months along.”
Emily covered her face and wept. Clara embraced her.
“There, there. Don’t cry so.”
“What do I do? He’s marrying her! And I’m—”
“First, we confirm it properly. Tomorrow, we’ll see a doctor.”
“Don’t tell Mum.”
“Not yet.”
Clara left, and Emily sat awake till dawn, thoughts spinning—memories of Edward, their promises, his talk of marriage after graduation.
The doctor confirmed it the next morning: fourteen weeks.
“What now?” Clara asked outside the surgery.
“I don’t know,” Emily whispered.
“Speak to him. Men often panic until faced with the truth.”
“He won’t change his mind.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I’ve seen them together. He loves her. Truly.”
“Then you decide. Raise the child alone, or…”
“Or?”
Clara hesitated. “End it.”
Emily shuddered.
“That’s a sin.”
“Sin or not, life’s hard enough with a husband, let alone alone.”
They rode the bus home in silence. Emily stared at the passing trees, the leaden sky. Inside her grew a life—and she had no idea what to do.
At home, her mother sensed something amiss.
“What’s wrong? Where were you?”
“The doctor,” Clara said. “Anaemia. She needs treatment.”
“I thought as much. So pale.”
Emily retreated to her room. On the kitchen threshold, Lydia stopped Clara.
“The truth, now. What’s wrong with her?”
“Just as I said. Anaemia.”
Lydia let it go, but unease gnawed at her.
That night, Emily’s childhood friend Lucy visited.
“You’ve been holed up for ages. What’s happened?”
Emily hesitated.
“Lucy… if a girl were in trouble—deep trouble—what would she do?”
“What sort of trouble?”
Emily swallowed. “If she were… with child, and the man left her?”
Lucy’s eyes widened.
“Emily, are you—?”
“Hypothetically.”
Lucy bit her lip. “Tell her parents. Or confront him.”
“Even if he’s marrying another?”
“Especially then.”
Emily nodded. No more was said.
The next day, she dressed and waited outside Edward’s university. He blanched when he saw her.
“Emily? What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
They sat on a park bench. Emily clenched her hands.
“Edward… I’m pregnant.”
He paled further.
“How?”
“You know how.”
He stood, pacing. “You’re certain?”
“Do you think I’d lie?”
“What do you want from me?”
“Nothing. Only for you to know.”
“And then?”
“Perhaps… not marry Charlotte?”
He whirled on her. “I love her. Truly.”
“And me?”
“I cared for you—but this is different.”
Emily’s throat tightened.
“So you’ll marry her regardless?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“And the child?”
“Perhaps… don’t keep it. You’re young. You’ll meet someone—”
Emily stood. “I see.”
“Emily, wait—”
But she walked away.
That night, Clara returned.
“You spoke to him?”
Emily nodded.
“He won’t change his mind.”
Clara cursed under her breath. “Then you choose. Alone, or…”
Emily lay a hand on her stomach. “If I keep it…?”
“Your mother must be told. You’ll need help.”
Emily pictured the scandal, the whispers.
“And if I don’t?”
“It’s risky, but I know a good doctor. It’ll cost fifty pounds.”
Emily shuddered. She’d saved that much for her wedding.
The next morning, her decision was made.
“Aunt Clara… I’ll end it.”
Clara arranged everything. They told Lydia it was appendicitis.
The procedure passed without complication. Emily lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. It was done.
She wept silently for the child she’d never know, the love she’d lost.
A week later, she went home. Lydia fussed over her, cooking hearty meals. Emily recovered, but the emptiness remained.
Edward married Charlotte soon after—a grand affair, by all accounts. Emily listened stone-faced.
Years later, on quiet evenings when the house was still, she’d trace the ghost of a child’s face in her memories and wonder who they might have been.
