“Take the kid if you want, I don’t care. I can’t stand the sight of him. Just give me some money in return,” said Vicky.
Emily had an elongated face with slightly bulging brown eyes, large teeth, and a heavy jaw. But her hair was thick, dark, and curled in loose waves. If she pinned it up, it made a voluminous updo—but then the flaws in her face became more obvious. So she always wore it down.
Her figure wasn’t much better, as if shaped by an unskilled sculptor. Clothes could hide that, but not her face.
Sometimes, men would call after her in the street—”Hey, love, fancy a chat?”—only to mumble apologies and hurry off when she turned around.
“Why does an ugly girl get hair like that?” her jealous classmates would sigh. Emily would’ve gladly traded it for thin, lifeless strands if it meant her face was even slightly prettier.
She had no friends. But there was one boy she liked. He sat nearby in class, sometimes asking to copy her homework or whisper answers during tests. Emily was top of the class.
One day, he invited her to the cinema. She was over the moon. After the film, they walked home, talking. He kept glancing back.
“Looking for someone? Afraid people will see you with me?” Emily asked bluntly. He flushed and stammered.
At her door, he gave her an awkward peck. Then came the snickering from around the corner—his mates. She understood then. They’d dared him to kiss the ugly girl.
“What’d they promise you?” she shouted, then ran inside. After that, she ignored him, never letting him copy again.
“Don’t fret, there’s plenty of fish in the sea. I managed to marry, so will you,” her equally plain mother comforted her.
Emily left school with top marks and studied economics at university, graduating with honours. But she envied her prettier classmates who partied, married, even had children during their studies.
After uni, her father—a well-connected barrister—got her a job at a prestigious firm.
Her colleagues rushed home to husbands and sickly children while Emily stayed late, tidying up their work. She had nowhere to hurry back to. They loved her for it; management valued her reliability.
Grateful, her coworkers tried setting her up with their husbands’ friends—divorced men who’d lost homes to ex-wives. Tired of renting and loneliness, they’d settle for any port in a storm. But Emily wanted love. She cried at night, cursing fate for making her ugly.
Then her father died. Two years later, her mother followed. Both had married late; she was their only child. Now, Emily was truly alone. Time passed, her window for motherhood narrowing.
A colleague suggested a holiday.
“Our MD had trouble conceiving,” she whispered. “Strong, handsome bloke, but infertile. His wife wanted kids but refused to divorce—big house, flash cars, status… Doctors hinted they should holiday abroad.”
They went to Spain. There, she slept with a handsome waiter after discreetly checking his blood type. “Just in case,” the colleague winked. “See where I’m going?”
“How d’you know this?” Emily whispered back.
“Doesn’t matter. Point is, everyone’s happy. The MD’s got an heir now. On holiday, all men are single—married or not. Sun, sea, maybe a fling? Pick a looker, improve the breed.”
“Like choosing a pedigree pup?” Emily scoffed.
“Exactly. Or try here, but why risk angry wives? Abroad, everyone’s divorced and footloose.”
Sceptical but desperate, Emily booked a trip. Strolling the promenade, she met a handsome stranger—tall, broad-shouldered, just right. She faked a twisted ankle. He played the gentleman, guiding her to a café where they dined.
She was blunt about what she wanted. He didn’t laugh, just studied her. Understood.
She returned home glowing, not yet knowing she was pregnant. Two weeks later, she knew. Nine months after, a beautiful girl arrived.
The midwife—kind to women like Emily—understood. No one visited, no flowers, no joyous shouts under her window. At discharge, the doctor gave formula, nappies, and her personal number. “Call if needed.” They became friends. Emily named her daughter Victoria.
She spoiled the girl rotten, pouring all her unused love into her. Victoria grew up stunning, spoiled, and wilful, inheriting only Emily’s hair—the rest was her father’s. Boys flocked to her. She struggled in school, dreaming only of marriage. Somehow, she graduated.
Their fights grew exhausting. One evening, Emily came home to a note: “Don’t look for me. Gone to London with my rocker boyfriend. He proposed…”
What could she do? Call the police? They wouldn’t chase an adult leaving willingly. Emily cried, then buried herself in work.
Over a year later, the doctor-friend called—rare these days. Straight to the point: a young mother had abandoned her baby.
“Name, address… It’s your daughter.”
“God,” Emily choked out.
“Don’t sob—come quick before she bolts. I’ve stalled the paperwork. Convince her to take the boy officially. If not, adopting him gets messy. You won’t refuse him, will you? That’s why I called. Maybe she’ll come round. Probably dumped by the father. The boy’s beautiful—minor health issues, fixable.”
Emily raced to the hospital. Victoria looked worse than a stray cat. She listened coldly to her mother’s plea.
“Take him if you want. Just give me money. I know you’ve got it.”
Emily handed over nearly all her savings. She met them at discharge with flowers, hoping Victoria would bond with the baby. But the girl ignored him—no breastfeeding, no naming input. Three days later, she vanished.
Emily named the boy George, after his grandfather. She took parental leave, hired a nanny. Her boss, valuing her, let her work remotely. Money was tight, but children grew fast.
She adored George but didn’t spoil him, fearing another Victoria. He was calm, sweet, calling her “Mum.” When older, she explained she was his grandmother, that his mother would return someday.
“But why doesn’t she call?” he asked. So Emily wrote fake letters from “Mum.” He believed them—until the empty promises wore thin. No envelopes, no postmarks—he grew wise.
She stopped the charade. Life was good. Only one fear gnawed at her: that Victoria would return and claim him. Or worse—take him away. Emily couldn’t imagine life without her sunshine.
Then, a letter arrived—from the U.S. Her hands trembled as she opened it. Victoria had married an older American with two daughters. He wanted a son. Emily’s heart seized. This was her nightmare.
She drank water, steadied herself, read on. Victoria couldn’t conceive. When her husband learned of her son in England, he urged her to bring him over. “Best schools, a big house…” Not once did she ask how George was. She’d be visiting soon…
Emily gasped for air, collapsing on the sofa. George found her there after school.
“Mum wrote again?” he smirked.
“It’s real. From America. She’s coming to take you.” Emily wept.
“Shall I call an ambulance? Your pills?” he fretted. “Gran, I’m not going. She never wanted me—I don’t want her.” His voice was firm, adult.
But Emily didn’t relax. Two weeks later, another letter: Victoria was divorcing. Her husband would pay eventually, but she needed money now.
Emily knew what was coming. Sell the big central London flat, buy a smaller one, send the difference. Victoria had rights to half. Another trade: money for silence.
Emily wasted no time. Two months later, she and George moved to a cramped newbuild on the outskirts. After the spacious family home, it felt tiny—but the forest view was lovely, the distant motorway a river of twinkling lights at night.
George started a new school. This time, Emily demanded Victoria sign away all parental rights before sending cash. Her friend’s advice—no more blackmail.
Still, fear lingered. Only when George turned eighteen would she breathe easy. For years, she flinched at the postman’s knock.
But Victoria never wrote again. Emily hoped she was happy, healthy. They say mothers sense their children, but Emily felt nothing—just her everlasting worry for George.
Age softened her face, the lines making her almost handsome. Looking back, she regretted nothing. No great love, perhaps—but George filled her heart.
If only God granted her more time—to see him grown, to meet his children…
Raising kids was tricky. Love them, but don’t spoil them. First, do no harm—that applied to parenting too.
