**Diary Entry**
*—What the hell were you doing on my laptop?*
James loomed over Emily. She’d never seen him like this before.
She came home from school and the smell of stale alcohol hit her in the hallway. Loud snores echoed from the living room. Dad was drunk again. She marched straight to the kitchen.
Mum stood by the sink, peeling potatoes. She turned at the sound of footsteps. Emily’s sharp eyes caught the swollen red mark on her cheek.
*”Mum, let’s leave him. How much longer can we take this? He could kill you one day,”* she spat, fists clenched.
*”And go where? Who’d want us? We’ve no money for even a bedsit. Don’t worry, he won’t kill me. He’s a coward—only brave enough to raise his hand to me.”*
The next morning, strange noises woke Emily. She crept to the kitchen. Dad stood by the stove, tilting his head back as he gulped water straight from the kettle. She stared, hypnotised, as his Adam’s apple bobbed—up, down, up, down. The liquid gurgled grotesquely down his throat. *Let him choke. Just let him choke.*
But he didn’t. He slammed the kettle down, wiped his mouth, and scowled at her with bloodshot eyes before shoving past to the bathroom.
A shudder ran through her. The thought of Mum refilling that kettle without rinsing it—his saliva, his stench—made her skin crawl. She scrubbed it raw with a sponge, vowing never to drink from it unwashed again.
At Christmas, Emily’s school trip took her to Edinburgh. When she returned, Mum was in hospital.
*”Did he do this?”* she demanded, staring at the bandages.
*”No, love. Slipped on ice.”*
Emily knew she was lying.
The years of blows gave Mum hypertension. Six months later, a stroke took her. At the funeral, Dad swayed on his feet, sobbing drunkenly one minute about his *”precious Margaret,”* then cursing her the next. He warned Emily—*”You’re just like her. If you ever try leaving me, I’ll kill you.”*
She barely made it to graduation. Skipped prom. Collected her diploma quietly the next day. While he was at work, she packed a bag and ran.
Dad gave grocery money—she’d pocketed bits, even stolen from his wallet when he passed out. Not much, but enough to survive a while. She’d planned it for years: work first, study part-time later.
She wasn’t afraid he’d search. The neighbours knew his drinking; even the local bobby wouldn’t help him. She headed to London, found a dingy flat on the outskirts, and got a job at Nando’s—free meals, help with her hygiene certificate. Enrolled in college for accounting. When Nando’s found out, they put her on tills.
Boys flirted. *”They’re all sweet at first,”* Mum had said. *”Then they drink. Or cheat. Take your pick. Don’t trust their soft words, love. I was pretty once too. Your dad didn’t drink when we met. We loved each other. Look how that turned out.”*
Emily remembered. She shut them all down. She’d seen how it ended.
Like Mum, she bulk-bought pasta, tinned goods, anything shelf-stable on payday. Dad drank his wages, but there was always food—monotonous, but there. Now, she did the same.
Heavy bags dug into her arms as she trudged home. A bloke texting barrelled into her.
*”Sorry,”* he muttered, finally looking up.
She meant to snap—*watch where you’re going*—but his smile disarmed her.
*”S’alright. My fault,”* she said, returning it.
He offered to carry her bags. Hesitant, she handed one over. No one with a smile like that could be bad. James—that was his name—walked her home but didn’t push to come inside.
Next day, he *”just happened”* to visit Nando’s. They started dating.
James was honest: divorced, a toddler he adored. He’d left his ex the flat, crashed with mates. *”Married too young. We had nothing in common. Some days, we didn’t speak.”*
He talked about his daughter constantly. That sealed it for Emily—a man who loved his kid was safe. A month later, he suggested moving in.
*”Let’s get a proper flat, closer to town. Easier together.”*
She agreed, elated. A real family at last. They found a small one-bed, toasted their new life quietly. She didn’t dare dream of weddings. James did—*”Two kids, a boy and girl,”* he’d say. She believed him.
He paid the first two months’ rent upfront. The third, he apologised—*”Daughter’s birthday. Bought her something nice, and the child maintenance…”*
No hesitation. She covered it. Then it became routine: his kid was sick, his parents needed help… She paid the rent. They were family, after all.
When the test turned positive, she burst with joy. James didn’t sweep her up like in films—just nodded.
*”Thought you’d be happy,”* she mumbled.
*”Just surprised. I am, really.”* He kissed her.
Relief. She floated through the flat, singing. But as weeks passed, no proposal came. Then, morning sickness. The smell of food revolted her. James had to cook.
*”My ex never had this. Maybe something’s wrong with you?”*
The *”ex”* stung. What was *she*, then?
*”It’s different for everyone. It’ll pass.”*
It did. Then came ravenous hunger. She ate everything, piled on weight. When none of her clothes fit, James noticed a new dress.
*”We’ve no money, and you’re out shopping?”*
*”I need something to wear! Spent it all on your daughter again?”*
*”She’s my kid. I’ll buy her what she needs. You knew that.”* His voice sharpened.
*”And our baby? Where do they rank?”*
*”I never pegged you for this. Thought we agreed.”*
*”You agreed! I just nodded because I loved you. If she matters more, there won’t *be* a baby!”*
The slap rang in her ears. His face twisted—a stranger.
*”Sorry, I lost it. Em, look at me.”* He kneeled, clutching her hands. *”Never again. I swear.”*
Tears in his eyes. Her resolve cracked. She stroked his hair. *Maybe it was my fault. I shouldn’t have threatened…*
He was sweet again. She convinced herself: *He’s not like Dad. Dad never apologised.*
Weeks later, nearing maternity leave, she opened his laptop to search for cheap prams. Prices gutted her. Second-hand would do. Too soon, maybe, but no use regretting. They’d manage.
Closing it, she accidentally clicked a folder. A girl filled the screen—young, laughing, tossing autumn leaves. Another photo: same girl, smirking at the camera.
*Who’s this? His ex? She’d be thirty. This girl’s barely twenty. Recent photo. Maybe just a downloaded pic?* Denial crept in.
*”He’s cheating,”* whispered her gut. *”You know nothing. Sure he visits his kid? Where are *her* photos?”* The baby kicked, sensing her panic.
*”Shh, little one. Mummy’s being silly. Daddy’ll explain—”*
Keys jingled. She slammed the laptop, bolted to the sofa. James walked in.
*”You okay?”* he asked, sensing tension.
*”Bad dream. You’re late?”*
Her eyes flicked to the laptop. The lid hadn’t shut—screen still lit, folder open.
James spoke. She prayed he wouldn’t notice.
*”Waited for you. Let’s eat—”*
Too late. His gaze locked on it.
*”You went through my laptop?”* Voice like ice.
*”Yours is faster. I was looking at prams—”*
He lifted the lid. *”Prams, eh?”*
*”I—I opened a folder by accident. Didn’t snoop—”*
*”Who’s *that*?”*
He slammed it shut. *”Mate’s wife. Sent me the wrong files.”*
*”Files? Why save them? You’re cheating!”*
*”Are you deaf?”* He advanced. *”I *told* you! How *dare* you—”*
His face—contorted, *ugly*. She backed up.
*”Run,”* screamed her mind.
*”Yeah,She walked out into the rain, clutching her son close, knowing she’d never let history repeat itself.
