**Flipping Through Life**
Granny Grace, Mum Valerie, and Emily had always been a trio. Emily had no memory of her father—she’d tried asking once, but Mum just hugged her tight, tears welling up. So Emily stopped asking. She didn’t want to upset her.
*”I won’t upset Mum again,”* she decided. *”Who needs a dad when we’re happy just the three of us?”*
But when Emily turned ten, Granny Grace passed away, leaving just her and Mum. Emily had always loved drawing—scribbling on anything she could get her hands on. Valerie never paid it much mind, only sighing, *”Love, you’re wasting paper instead of doing your schoolwork.”*
Her art teacher, however, was full of praise. *”Emily, if you train properly, you could be brilliant. Trust me—I know talent when I see it. Tell your mother I said so.”*
Mum just rolled her eyes. *”What does an art teacher know? Fine, let her doodle if it keeps her busy.”* Still, she bought Emily paints and sketchbooks, and Emily poured her heart into landscapes, losing herself in every stroke.
By the time she finished school, she was set on art college. Mum had other plans.
*”No art college. You’re going to teacher training college.”*
*”Mum, I don’t want to—”*
*”I wasn’t asking. What sort of career is ‘artist’ anyway?”*
Like any girl her age, Emily dreamed of meeting her prince—tall, handsome, tender. She’d know him instantly.
During exams, she escaped to the riverbank with her easel, the only place she felt at peace. The opposite bank had a steep drop into a pine forest, and sometimes she’d spot fishermen—some in boats, others casting lines from the shore. She painted it all: the water, the clouds, the reflections.
One day, her brushstrokes felt all wrong. The clouds looked stiff, lifeless.
*”You’re pressing too hard,”* a voice said behind her. *”Light touches—like this.”* A hand took her brush, grazing the canvas with effortless ease, and suddenly the clouds breathed.
Her heart fluttered faster than those clouds. She looked up—and there he was. Her prince.
*”Hello,”* he grinned. *”I’m Oliver. And you are?”*
Emily froze, words sticking in her throat. Finally, she whispered, *”Emily.”* He kissed her hand—gentle, almost reverent—and no one had ever done that before.
From then on, they met by the river. Oliver, an artist himself, taught her tricks of the trade. He’d come from London to visit his aunt, fresh out of art school but, like many *”misunderstood geniuses,”* still waiting for his big break. *”They’ll regret ignoring me,”* he’d mutter, pulling her close.
She was head over heels, so when he kissed her, when things went further, she barely resisted. It happened a few times—then he vanished. She waited by the river for weeks, brush untouched, hope fraying.
*”Did he leave me? He said he loved me—said it was forever!”* But reality sank in: Oliver wasn’t coming back.
Exams ended, graduation loomed, and Emily numbly prepared for teacher training. Then she started feeling ill.
*”You’re pale,”* Mum fretted.
*”Just dizzy,”* Emily mumbled.
Teacher training never happened. She was pregnant. Mum erupted—shouting, crying, stomping—then coldly declared, *”I know a doctor. He’ll fix this.”*
Emily recoiled. *”No. I’m keeping the baby.”*
*”You don’t get a say!”*
*”Try forcing me, and I’ll leave—or worse.”*
Mum went white. *”I’m sorry,”* she whispered, crumbling. *”I raised you alone. We’ll raise this baby too.”*
They never spoke of it again. Mum even grew excited, knitting tiny jumpers. Then came the labour, the hospital, waking up to a stranger in a white coat.
*”Your daughter didn’t make it. But you’ll have others.”*
Emily screamed until they sedated her. She insisted on the funeral, saw the tiny coffin, the still face—a memory etched forever.
Years passed. Emily never married, never painted again. The desire had died with her daughter. Time dulled the pain. She trained as a seamstress, worked at a textile factory.
When Mum fell ill, Emily nursed her tirelessly. One evening, Mum gasped, *”Emily… your daughter’s alive. Her name’s Grace Sophie S—”* Then she was gone.
Emily dismissed it as delirium. She’d *buried* her baby.
Alone, she threw herself into work, took out a loan, and opened a small dress shop. Business thrived—she even hired an assistant.
Lately, she’d been dreaming of a woman in a beige coat, smiling, walking toward her—always vanishing before they met.
Then a detective visited. *”Grace Sophie Saunders is alive. You buried another woman’s child. Your mother paid the midwife to lie.”*
The door opened. In walked a woman in a cream coat—the one from her dreams.
*”Mum?”*
Emily nearly fainted. *”You’re… you’re really here.”*
Grace smiled. *”Let’s forgive Granny. My parents—the ones who raised me—died last year. They never knew… But I can’t call you ‘Mum’ yet. ‘Mum Emily’ for now?”*
A year later, Emily watched Grace marry, glowing in white. When the bouquet sailed past all the single girls and landed in Emily’s hands, Grace laughed. *”You’re next, Mum!”*
Flustered, Emily turned—and there was the detective, smiling.
*”Marry me?”*
Her heart melted. *”Yes.”*
Now, flipping through her life, Emily sometimes thinks of Oliver, the pregnancy, the years lost. It was hard—but life, in the end, repaid her in full. She’s happy.
And there’s a new baby now—hers and Stephen’s.
