The Pretend Child

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 10 minViews 1

Jenny worked at a countryside health spa, the kind you reach by a cramped commuter train from London. The journey was exhausting, but the pay was decent and the schedule let her juggle a parttime nursery job. Summer was tolerable, yet winter made the walk to the station feel like a scene from a horror film dark, almost empty, and the parking lots looked more like abandoned farms. She wasnt dumped near the car park, though; a big black SUV pulled up right by the platform. The window rolled down and a bearded fellow asked:

Fancy a lift, love?

Jenny had never been called a beauty, and in any other context the line might have flattered her. Her old boots were already numb, her nose was running, and she still had seven minutes to catch the train. All she wanted was a warm, heated house. She imagined the halfhour ride on the train, a dash to the nursery, a quick stop at the shop, then home to stoke the fire, whack together dinner and finally collapse. No time for chitchat, so she blurted:

Fine, Ill be your ladylike passenger!

and trudged along the frostbitten path. The SUV overtook her, braked, and a different man cleanshaven, tall and solid as a brick hopped out and plonked her onto the back seat.

The bearded driver, still smiling, called out:

You caught my eye, so youre coming to dinner with me.

Jenny instantly sensed the fellow was plastered and not accustomed to a no. She started to sob.

Let me go! My little girls waiting! Im thirtytwo, not exactly a supermodel, and I cant even hold a conversation properly. You dont see the coat Im wearing? A neighbour gave me this fur, but underneath its a threadbare sweater and trousers. What dinner could you possibly serve?

The burly man whod lifted her leaned over and whispered something to the bearded driver. He shook his head and replied:

Alright, dont cry. Im taking you back to the spa, you know Ive seen that sweater before, right? You look just like my mother used to she always dreamed of being invited to a fancy restaurant. Come on, dont be a drama queen. Want me to buy you a dress?

I just want to get home, Jenny hiccuped. I have to pick up my daughter.

How old is she?

Four.

And the father?

Gone.

Oh, mines gone too. Going to another woman?

No. His mother says the childs not real. We did IVF. He initially said yes, then she claimed kids born that way have no souls. Hes a decent bloke, but hes easily swayed thats why I keep protecting my exhusband.

The not real sort, huh? the bearded man said, nodding. Fine, lets roll. Wheres the nursery? Vicky, drive us.

Jenny melted into the seat, trying to conjure a plan. It was obvious the bearded man wasnt going to let her go without a tug. Her only hope lay with the hulking fellow, who seemed to gaze at her with a flicker of sympathy.

When the whole gang a nursery worker, a couple in matching snuggies, and a few other parents finally arrived, everyone fell silent, staring at Jenny. They werent used to seeing her in such a crowd. Little Ethel, unsurprisingly fearless, immediately asked whether the bearded chap was Santa Claus and if anyone had seen her dad. She interrogated everyone about her father; Jenny was used to it now and hardly blushed. When they got into the car, Ethel pounced on the steering wheel and announced she could drive as well.

The bearded man laughed.

Cheeky little thing. And you say not real. Want some ice cream?

I do! Ethel squealed.

They swung by an icecream parlour, then a supermarket where the bearded fellow piled a basket full of oddities: salted fish, exotic fruit, blueveined cheese. Jenny would have preferred chicken and pasta, but you dont question a gift.

They dropped them at Jennys modest terraced house, and the nowsobering bearded man begged for a cuppa. While Jenny was stoking the fire, he stared wideeyed and said:

I thought my childhood was rough Do you really have a toilet outside?

Indeed, Jenny smirked.

She no longer feared him; he was harmless, just a bit dim. His sidekick turned out to be a decent chap, slipping in fresh milk, bread, proper cheese and childrens curd. Perhaps he had kids of his own.

Once the unwanted visitors were gone, Jenny felt a sudden tremor. She burst into tears, frightening Ethel, but she couldnt stop the tears just kept flowing. It was the first time shed really broken down since her husband packed his bags and went back to his mothers house, leaving her heavily pregnant in the brandnew bungalow theyd just bought. Hed insisted that even if the child was not real, the house should stay theirs.

The next morning the same black SUV waited outside the spa. The bearded man was gone; only the driver, Victor, remained.

Hop in, he said. Ill take you into town.

Why? Jenny asked. Do I look like your mother?

Dont be cheeky, Victor snapped, a bit offended. Im heading that way anyway, thought I might as well give you a lift.

Fine, Jenny sighed. Wheres your boss?

Hes out drinking, dont mind him. He celebrated his mums birthday yesterday if she were still alive, you know? He doesnt drink much otherwise.

Jenny shrugged. She didnt care. She got in.

At first the ride was silent; Victor wasnt much of a conversationalist. Eventually he asked:

So, the baby really came from a testtube?

Yes.

Crazy what people think up these days, huh?

Do you have kids yourself?

Nope. Ive got three younger siblings whove taken over my brain. Ones enough for me.

Right, Jenny agreed.

Ethel, thrilled by the car, asked if theyd go back for more ice cream.

No money for that, Jenny muttered.

Come on, Ill treat, Victor offered, waving his hand.

I cant afford it, she said bluntly.

Your treat then, he grinned.

On the way back Ethel fell asleep. While Jenny wrestled with how to get her out of the seat, Victor scooped the little girl up and carried her toward the house.

Little thing, he mused, and not worth a penny.

A few days passed without seeing Victor. Then she stumbled upon his SUV again, this time with a freshlyshaved man inside.

Victor, he introduced himself, sorry about the other night, I was out of sorts. Id genuinely like to invite you to dinner at a restaurant. Not today, of course whenever youre free.

Jenny first wanted to refuse, but thought, why not? She could even dust off a dress. Only problem: who to leave Ethel with?

Victor suggested, I can watch her.

Leaving a child with a stranger seemed dicey, but Victors easy grin gave her a sliver of trust. She arranged for Ethel to stay in the playroom, which was less intimidating for both.

The dinner turned out to be a laugh. Victor was chatty, a tad selfabsorbed, but charming enough that Jenny felt, for the first time in ages, like a proper woman. When he mentioned an upcoming art exhibit, she said yes.

Ethel adored both the playroom and Victor. When he brought home a bag of groceries, Jenny thought it was overkill, but Victor declared, Its from Victor L., and the parcels kept appearing every few days. She wasnt sure whether to thank him or politely decline she earned enough to buy bread and butter, as the saying goes. Still, Victor started courting her, whisking her to restaurants and cultural events whenever he could find the time. Victor, meanwhile, became the unofficial babysitter, and everyone seemed content.

One evening Victor blurted out, Victor L. might be falling for you. Hes even thinking about marriage. The childs the only thing that scares him a stranger, after all.

Jenny flinched. Marry? He hasnt even taken my hand. And the child isnt even his

I want to marry you, she snapped.

And what, youll say no? Victor perked up. Hes rich, youll be as safe as a stone wall.

I dont need rich, she retorted.

What do you need then?

She shrugged, recalling her exhusband a bloke definitely not on her wish list.

I dont know, she admitted honestly.

Victor lunged, pulled her close and kissed her. Jenny recoiled, and Victor, redfaced, stammered, Sorry, I I dont know sorry and fled. She wasnt sure whether the suddenness had thrilled her or not.

The next day Ethel fell ill with a fever a proper horror for a mother who had to take sick leave, something the spa frowned upon. Victor, who had planned a night at the theatre with Jenny, looked crestfallen.

Maybe Victor can sit with her?

What if she catches something? Jenny hesitated.

Come on, you wanted that show anyway! Victor urged.

She eventually agreed, though she was uneasy about wasting pricey tickets. By evening Ethel felt better. The theatre was a blur; she kept thinking of her daughter. When Victor talked about a skitrip, Jenny stopped him:

Listen, Im grateful for the groceries and theatre tickets, but thats over the line. I wont go to a resort on your dime.

What groceries? Victor asked, confused.

Victor brings them, remember? Hes a good soul. But the resort? My mum loved skiing; maybe someone should invite her.

A sudden clarity hit Jenny. She took Victors hands and said:

Your mum would be proud of the man youre becoming, Im sure. But dont push yourself to impress. Find someone who loves you for you. And as for me I think I love someone else now.

Victor, hurt, let a tear slip, complained he didnt get women. He still drove her home and, on the way back, said hed head off, leaving Victor to do as he pleased.

Ethel fell asleep curled up with a plush bear Victor had given her. Victor dozed in his seat, too. Jenny tiptoed over, leaned in, and planted a gentle kiss on his lips. He woke, bewildered. Ethel whispered, You ran off too fast yesterday. I wasnt expecting it. You scared me, you know?

She kissed him again, and this time neither of them flinched.

Every Man for Himself “Mum, you can’t imagine what the property market’s like right now,” Max fretted, sifting nervously through a stack of printouts, sorting them into neat piles before fanning them out across the kitchen table. “Prices go up every week. If we don’t put down a deposit right now, someone else will snap up this flat.” Lydia slid a cup of cooling tea over to her son and sat down opposite. Floorplans, figures, and repayment charts flickered across the pages. A three-bedroom in a new build—Tim and Sophie would finally get their own rooms. “How much are you short?” “Eight hundred and twenty thousand,” Max pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know, it’s a lot. But Anya’s at her wits’ end, the kids are growing, and we’re still hopping between rentals…” Staring at her son, Lydia saw the same boy who used to bring her limp bouquets of dandelions. Thirty-two, two children, and the frown line between his brows was just as it had been in childhood, whenever he worried over unfinished homework. “I’ve got savings. It’s in the account.” “Mum, I’ll pay you back, promise. As soon as things settle, I’ll start putting money aside straight away.” She covered his hand with her own, roughened by years of constant cooking and cleaning. “Max, it’s for your kids. There’s no need to talk about repayment. Family matters more than money.” At the bank, Lydia filled in forms letter-perfect, thanks to thirty years as a bookkeeper. Eight hundred and twenty thousand—nearly all she’d set aside over recent years. For a rainy day, for the unknown, the ‘just in case.’ Max hugged her tightly at the cashier’s counter—ignoring the waiting queue. “You’re the best, you know that? I’ll never forget this.” Lydia patted his back. “Go on. Anya’s probably waiting.” …The first months after the move blurred into a carousel of cross-city journeys. Lydia turned up with bags from Tesco—chicken, buckwheat, butter, kids’ yogurts. Helped Anya put up curtains, assemble furniture, scrub construction dust from the windowsills. “Careful with the tools, Tim!” she’d call, hanging curtains and simultaneously explaining to her daughter-in-law the proper way to cook cabbage rolls. Anya nodded absently, scrolling through her phone. Max appeared each evening, exhausted from work, wolfed down his mum’s cooking, then disappeared into the bedroom. “Thanks, Mum,” he’d say fleetingly. “What would we do without you?” …Half a year later, a familiar number appeared on her screen. “Mum, listen… My mortgage payment and car repairs both landed this month. We’re short thirty-five thousand.” Lydia sent the money without extra questions. Young families struggle—everyone knows that. Adapting to new expenses, little kids, stressful jobs. It’s all right, they’ll get on their feet—repay her. Or maybe not. Did it really matter, when it came to your own children? The years slipped faster than water through her fingers. Tim turned seven and Lydia gave him the Lego set he’d begged for all year. Sophie twirled in a new pink dress—sequined just like a princess from the cartoons. “Gran, you’re the best!” Sophie clung around her neck—sweet with the smell of shampoo and sweets. Every weekend, Lydia took the grandkids—to her house, the theatre, the funfair, the ice rink. She bought ice creams, toys, books. Her shabby old coat was always bulging with sweets and wet wipes. Five years passed in this generous, self-inflicted servitude. Money for the mortgage—”Mum, things are tight this month.” Days off for sick grandkids— “Mum, we just can’t get away from work.” Groceries— “Mum, you’re going to the shop anyway, aren’t you?” Gratitude came less and less often… …That morning, she examined the water stains spreading across her kitchen ceiling. Rusty marks crawling through the plaster. She’d been flooded—and living there was now impossible. She rang her son. “Max, I need help with repairs. I’ve been flooded, don’t know when or if I’ll get money back…” “Mum,” her son cut her off, “You have to understand, I just have other priorities now. Kids’ clubs, their activities, Anya’s signed up for courses…” “I’m not asking for much. Just help finding a tradesman, or even…” “I really don’t have time for trivial stuff right now, Mum,” Max insisted, not listening. “Let’s talk about it later. I’ll call, yeah?” An engaged tone… Lydia put down her phone. A screensaver flickered—last year’s New Year photo: herself, Tim, Sophie, all smiling. The money he’d borrowed without a second thought. The weekends she’d given up for his children. The time, energy, love—all that was ‘in the past.’ Now—”other priorities.” A drop of water from the ceiling splashed on her hand. Cold… Next day, Anya called herself. Unusual, enough to set Lydia on edge before her daughter-in-law had even spoken. “Lydia, Max told me about your call,” Anya said, briskly. “You do realise everyone’s responsible for their own problems? We’ve got the flat to run, the mortgage to pay…” Lydia nearly laughed. The mortgage—she’d covered every third payment. The deposit—almost entirely her savings. “Of course, Anya,” she replied evenly. “Each to their own.” “Glad to hear it. Max was just worried you’d taken offence. You haven’t, have you?” “No. Not at all.” Engaged tone… Lydia stared at her phone for a long time as if it were some strange insect. Then she walked to the window, but turned away—nothing outside could comfort her. Her nights became endless hours where the ceiling pressed down, thoughts hovering endlessly. Lydia lay in the dark, sorting out the last five years like beads. She’d created this herself—raising her son to believe a mother was an inexhaustible resource. In the morning, Lydia rang the estate agent. “I’d like to list my cottage for sale. Six acres, just outside London, electricity sorted.” The holiday home she and her husband had built over twenty years. Apple trees she’d planted while pregnant with Max. The veranda where they’d spent so many summer evenings. A buyer turned up within a month. Lydia signed the paperwork, refusing to dwell on what she was selling. The money landed in her account, and she split it up methodically: repairs, a new savings account, a small reserve for emergencies. The builders arrived the following week. Lydia chose her own tiles, wallpaper, fixtures. For the first time in years, she spent on herself—not putting money aside for a rainy day, not worrying who’d need help next. Max didn’t call. Two weeks, three, a month. Lydia stayed silent too. He finally called when the renovations were finished. The new kitchen gleamed white, the windows no longer whistled, the pipes had stopped bleeding rust across the ceiling. “Mum, why haven’t you been over? Sophie was asking.” “I’ve been busy.” “With what?” “Living, Max. My own life.” She visited a week later. Brought books for the grandkids—good presents, but nothing extravagant. Sat two hours for tea, chatting about the weather and Tim’s schoolwork. Declined dinner. “Mum, could you watch the kids Saturday?” Max caught her in the hallway. “Anya and I…” “I can’t. I have plans.” Lydia saw his face fall. He didn’t understand—yet. Months slipped by, and understanding came slowly, painfully. Without his mother’s transfers, the mortgage chewed up a third of the family budget. Without a free babysitter, there was no one to leave the kids with. Lydia, meanwhile, opened a new high-interest savings account. Bought herself a new coat—good, warm, not on sale. Spent two weeks at a spa in Devon. Signed up for a Nordic walking class. She remembered how Anya’s parents always kept their distance—polite greetings at holidays, obligatory visits every couple of months. No money, no help, no sacrifices. And no complaints from their daughter. Perhaps they’d been right all along? Sporadic visits with the grandchildren became a formality. Lydia brought modest gifts, chatted about school and friends, left after a couple of hours, never stayed for dinner, never took the kids for the weekend. Once Tim asked, “Gran, why don’t you take us to the park anymore?” “Gran’s busy these days, love.” The boy didn’t understand. But Max, standing in the doorway, seemed to finally be catching on. Lydia went back to her renovated flat, the air scented with fresh paint and new furniture. Brewed good tea, sat back in her comfy new chair, courtesy of the cottage sale. Guilt? It still crept in at night. Less and less. Because Lydia had finally learned the simplest truth: love does not mean self-sacrifice—especially when sacrifice goes unseen and unappreciated. She chose herself—for the first time in thirty-two years of motherhood.

My Son Spent Years Searching for the Right Woman to Marry—At 30, He Finally Found His Perfect Match in Alice. I Supported His Choice, but Now Their Marriage Is Falling Apart, and I’m Not Sure If I Made Things Worse by Urging Him to Leave Almost every day, I heard about how lovely and beautiful Alice was. My son was truly smitten with her, and I liked her too. He passionately told me and his friends about her wonderful qualities—she seemed to be the perfect woman for him, so he married her without hesitation. As a loving mum, I fully supported his choice. Planning a wedding can be a real challenge, but my friends were absolute stars. The bride’s parents were delightful, and we got on famously from the start. At first, everything was perfect, but over time, things began to change. Their marriage started falling apart, and arguments became more frequent. I knew it was only their first year of marriage and hoped things would improve, but I worried about them—I just wanted them to be happy together. One evening really shook me. Late at night, my son arrived at my door with his things, saying he had nowhere else to go because Alice had kicked him out. He spent a few days with me, and Alice never came round to try to work things out. This happened again and again. When my daughter-in-law told me she was pregnant, I decided it was time for a chat with them. I just wanted to offer some advice to help them avoid misunderstandings in the future. It only made things worse. Their arguments became even more frequent, and my son stayed over at my place more often. I could see he was struggling—he wasn’t the happy man he used to be; there was disappointment in his eyes. I couldn’t stand seeing my son so unhappy in his marriage. I suggested he think carefully about whether it was worth staying together. He could still be a wonderful father even if he lived apart. Soon after, he filed for divorce. Not long after, Alice came to me for help, asking me to persuade my son to withdraw the divorce papers—she didn’t want the family to fall apart. I’d already advised her more than once to focus on her marriage. Now I’m accused of interfering in their relationship. I don’t know if I did the right thing by urging my son to divorce. His wife doesn’t like me, and he’s grown more distant from me as well. But maybe they still love each other? Living apart feels wrong, but living together isn’t working out either.