**The Last Sacrifice**
“Mum, we need to talk.”
“That doesn’t sound good.” Irene’s stomach twisted as she studied her son.
Handsome, bright. Always been a good lad, never gave her much trouble—until Year Eleven when he fell in love. Skipping classes, failing exams. She’d tried to reason with him. The girl didn’t feel the same—fancied some other bloke with well-off parents.
No matter how Irene argued that love wasn’t about money, that the other lad’s privilege meant nothing, her words fell on deaf ears. Tom had convinced himself—if only *he* had money, a flash car, she’d choose *him* instead.
He took the rejection so hard she feared for him. Found a therapist, someone who could talk to him man to man. It worked. Tom aced his A-Levels, got into uni. And, of course, fell in love again.
By the end of first year, he declared he wanted independence—a flat of his own.
“With what money? Rent’s steep. I can’t help you. You know my wages. You’re eighteen—no more child support from your dad. Unless you’re dropping out?”
“I spoke to Dad. He’ll cover the first few months.”
“You *saw* him? Why didn’t you tell me?” Irene’s voice sharpened.
“You’d have talked me out of it. *You* divorced him, not me.”
“Oh, you think he’s changed?” Her laugh was bitter. “He cut his wages *legally* to slash child support. Walked away from both of us. You really think he’ll keep his word? A month, two, then some excuse. What then? He’s got another daughter now. Or is Emily’s family helping?” A mother’s instinct told her he was hiding something.
After relentless pressing, Tom cracked.
“I told Emily it’s *my* flat. Inherited from Gran. No rent.”
“You *lied*? And her parents won’t chip in? How will you live?”
“Emily hasn’t told them. They’re strict. They send her an allowance—it’ll do.”
“So she lies too. Too scared to face them, but happy to live off you? Let me guess—you spun some tale about your ‘successful’ dad so she wouldn’t trade up? But lies unravel, Tom. Then what?”
“Fine, I told her I’ve got money! What else was I supposed to do? Girls don’t pick blokes like me—not without cash. By the time I *have* any, I’ll be old!”
“This isn’t how to start a life. Tell her the truth. If she loves you—”
“Enough! I’m doing it. Shouldn’t have told you. We’re not marrying—it’ll fizzle out. You’re making drama over nothing.”
Irene barely slept. At breakfast, she tried again. He snapped, stormed out. By evening, half his things were gone. Her stomach lurched. Her sweet, sensitive boy—gone without a word.
That night, she called. Loud music drowned his voice—probably a celebration. He mumbled an apology, too afraid of her tears. It eased the ache, barely.
She paced, then rang friends. One said she was clinging—let him grow up. The other had a husband who’d never let their daughter stray. Her own mother sighed: *You spoiled him. Gave too much, kept nothing for yourself. Now look.*
They weren’t wrong. But what else could she do? He was her world.
Months passed. He visited while she worked—vanished food, rummaged cupboards. Then one Sunday, he appeared. Gaunt, wrinkled shirt. She fed him silently. He left with a bag of groceries.
Then the ask: “Gran’s place is cramped. Maybe you two could move in together? Free up your flat for us?”
Irene’s pulse spiked. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
Tom exhaled. “Emily’s pregnant.”
Irene’s nails bit her palms. “And *her* parents?”
“Emily won’t tell them.”
The trap snapped shut. She gave in. Moved in with Mum. The relief surprised her—nothing left to take.
But doubts festered. *Emily wants, Emily says*—why was *she* the one sacrificing? She dug deeper. A cop friend tracked Emily’s dad—a drunk in a shabby flat. “She’s sharp,” he’d shrugged. “She’ll manage.”
Irene let go.
The baby came. Visiting her old flat, she stifled a gasp—messy, unkempt. Emily didn’t notice. Irene left, numb.
Tom’s visits grew frequent. Dark circles, wolfing down meals. “Emily wants more money. We argue non-stop.”
Then the blow: “We’re divorcing. She says she’ll keep the baby unless I agree to sell the flat.”
Irene’s spine straightened. “No.”
Tom’s glare turned venomous. “So you won’t help?”
“Not this time.”
He left, spewing blame.
For once, she didn’t bend. Love had cost too much already.
