**Who Else to Trust but Your Own Mother?**
Amelia remembers her happy childhood, though at twenty-five, she’s already seen her share of joy, hardship, and betrayal.
When young, dashing Lieutenant William, fresh out of military academy, proposed to his girlfriend Laura, she could hardly believe it. They’d been together for over two years while he studied, meeting only occasionally—cadets rarely got leave.
“Laurie, let’s get the paperwork done straight away,” William said, thrilled to have graduated, earned his rank, and soon, to be a married man. “We’ll tie the knot, I’ll settle at my new posting, and you’ll join me later.”
“I’d love to,” Laura replied eagerly. She’d long wanted to escape her drunken, quarrelsome father, and her mother wasn’t much of a loss either.
Laura’s mother made excuses for her husband when he was sober, waited on him hand and foot, then watched as it all fell apart again. No one paid much attention to Laura—just as long as she was fed and clothed. Her mother had to fight for every penny of his wages before he drank them away.
Laura had seen little kindness in her life.
“When I have a daughter,” she used to dream, “I’ll love her properly. No shouting matches—I’d never marry a man like my father. I’ll find someone decent.”
Laura joined William in a remote Yorkshire village where he was stationed. The place was small, but they had a one-bedroom flat straight away. He’d managed to furnish it partly with military-issued items and bought the rest himself.
“Will, I’m so happy—just the two of us now, and I’m the lady of the house!” Laura beamed, while he hugged her, content.
A year and a half later, their daughter Amelia was born. From then on, Laura was mostly on her own—William was always drilling or on duty, rarely home in time to bathe their baby. He missed her terribly, leaving and returning while she slept.
Years passed. Amelia grew, and William was transferred—first to a small market town, then elsewhere, so Amelia attended different schools as they moved around the country. Then one evening, her father came home and announced,
“Right, we’re off to London—my new posting. We’ll likely stay there for good.”
“About time,” Laura said. “I’m sick of bouncing between bases. Other families stay put.”
“Laurie, you married a military man—you knew the deal. What’s the problem? We’ve a flat, a car, money.”
But Laura, it seemed, had inherited her mother’s temperament. Over time, she paid Amelia less attention, and the girl grew closer to her father. They understood each other perfectly. Laura didn’t seem to care.
They were given a three-bedroom flat in central London—a far cry from their old cramped quarters. The balcony on the tenth floor was Amelia’s favourite, with its stunning view.
She attended a good school. William served, Laura worked. Amelia often overheard her mother berating her father, who stayed silent while Laura picked fights over nothing. Amelia pitied him—he’d retreat to the balcony, sit in his chair with the paper, waiting for Laura to vent. She wouldn’t dare make a scene out there—she cared too much about gossip.
Two years later, they divorced. Amelia stayed with her mother; William moved across the city, leaving them the flat.
“Millie, visit me on weekends or holidays—here’s the address,” he said, handing her a precious slip of paper. She tucked it away, hiding it from Laura.
Amelia visited her father often—they strolled in parks, watched films, ate ice cream. Laura’s bitterness towards William spilled onto her daughter. By secondary school, Amelia learned to stand up to her. They coexisted in icy silence, like strangers.
When it came to university, Amelia chose one far from home—anywhere to get away. She thrived in student halls, relieved to be free of her mother.
“I’ll visit Dad on breaks, see Mum if I must,” she thought.
But returning home for the holidays brought disappointment. Laura was living with Ian, a man just seven years older than Amelia. For the first time, Amelia saw a drunk in their home—William only ever drank lightly on special occasions. Ian was perpetually tipsy. She couldn’t tell if he even worked—he’d disappear sometimes but always returned soused.
“Mum, how can you stand Ian like this?” Amelia finally asked. “He’s always drunk, and he shouts.”
“None of your business. Ian’s had a hard life. Don’t like it? Go to your father’s—no one’s keeping you here.”
Amelia left the next morning—after Ian had barged into her room the night before, only stopped by Laura’s return. She packed a bag and fled to her father’s, then back to uni two days later. She couldn’t fathom why Laura excused Ian, enduring his rages—even his shoves.
“That flat’s dead to me while Ian’s there,” she decided.
And so it was. In her fourth year, after exams, Amelia visited her father—now living with Anna, a warm woman who treated her like family. Then, right outside his building, a car struck her. She woke in hospital with a broken leg.
William visited when he could; Anna came alone when he was away. Reluctantly, Amelia called Laura.
“Mum, hi—I’m in hospital.”
Laura promised to come. She did—with a solicitor in tow.
“Love, this is about paperwork. Your father didn’t bother, but I won’t leave you without a roof. This flat’ll be yours when I’m gone—my word on it.”
Amelia signed, trusting her mother. After graduation, she stayed in London, working hard, saving for a flat of her own.
One day, she rang Laura.
“Mum, how are you? Everything alright?”
“Getting by. Split with Ian—had enough of his drinking.”
“Finally!” Amelia said, relieved.
“Changed things, actually. Sold the flat, bought a two-bedder. You’ll visit, and it’ll be yours one day.”
The sale went through—details unknown. Amelia rang Tanya, an old neighbour.
“Millie, didn’t you know? Your mum pulled a fast one. You signed those papers—Ian owns your flat now. She sold his one-bed, put his name on hers. They’re both jobless, drinking the money away. You’d better check the records.”
Amelia was crushed. That hospital document had stripped her of her inheritance—Ian owned it all now. Laura had exploited her trust. Who else was there to believe but your own mother?
She visited Laura’s new place—her mother tipsy.
“Mum, why’d you cut me out?”
“Oh, love, you’ll earn your own way. Fancy a drink?”
Amelia recoiled. This was how Laura would end—just like her own parents failed her. Even kind, steady William couldn’t save her.
“Don’t fret, love,” he told Amelia later. “We’ll get you a flat in time—Anna and I are saving. Just pick the right husband, eh? Seeing anyone?”
“Yes, Dad—Oliver. He’s like you. I know what to look for.”
Amelia cut ties with Laura, who never reached out.
“What do you know about life?” Laura had sneered. “Mine’s exciting. What’ve you got?”
Their views would never align. Amelia would never understand her mother’s idea of “exciting”—a slow, lonely ruin.
