**Who to Trust if Not Your Own Mother**
Emma still remembers her happy childhood, though at twenty-five, she’s already seen enough of life—its joys, its sorrows, and its betrayals.
When young and dashing Lieutenant James, fresh out of military academy, proposed to his girlfriend Laura, she could scarcely believe it. They had been together for over two years while James was studying, and their meetings had been rare. Cadets weren’t often granted leave.
“Laura, let’s go register at once,” James said, thrilled to have finished his training, earned his rank, and soon to be a married man. “We’ll wed, I’ll settle into my new posting, and you’ll join me later—I’ll be waiting.”
“I’d love to,” replied Laura, overjoyed. She had long wanted to escape her home—her drunken, quarrelsome father, and a mother who hardly seemed to care.
Laura’s mother would defend her husband when he was sober, fussing over him with meals, only for the cycle to repeat. No one paid much attention to Laura—so long as she was fed and clothed. Her mother fought bitterly for his wages before he drank them all away.
There had been little joy in Laura’s life.
“When I have a daughter,” she vowed, “I’ll love her differently. There’ll be no shouting—I’d never marry a man like my father. I’ll find someone decent.”
Laura joined James in a remote garrison town where he was stationed. It was small, but they had a modest flat. James had arranged basic furniture—some military-issued, some bought himself.
“James, I’m so happy,” Laura beamed. “Now it’s just us, and I’m the mistress of my own home.”
A year and a half later, their daughter Emma was born. From then on, Laura was mostly on her own—James was often away on duty or exercises, rarely home in time to bathe their baby. He missed her dearly but saw her only when she slept.
Years passed. Emma grew, and James was transferred—first to a small county town, then another, and another. Emma changed schools often as they moved across the country. Then one day, James came home with news.
“We’re being posted to London—likely for good.”
“Finally,” Laura said. “I’m sick of these garrisons. Other wives stay put.”
“Laura, you married a soldier. You’ve a home, a car, money—what more do you want?”
But Laura, it seemed, had inherited her mother’s temperament. In time, she neglected Emma too, and the girl grew closer to her father. Laura didn’t care.
They were given a three-bedroom flat in the city centre—a far cry from their old quarters. Emma loved the balcony, high on the tenth floor, with its stunning view.
She attended a good school. James worked, Laura too, but Emma often heard her mother shouting at her father. He’d stay silent, retreating to the balcony with a paper, waiting for the storm to pass. Laura wouldn’t dare make a scene out there—what would the neighbours think?
Two years later, they divorced. Emma stayed with her mother; James moved across town but left them the flat.
“Emma, visit me on weekends or holidays,” he said, handing her his new address. She tucked the precious slip of paper away, keeping it from Laura.
Emma visited her father often—strolling in the park, catching films, sharing ice cream. Laura’s bitterness toward James spilled onto Emma. By secondary school, Emma learned to stand her ground. They coexisted—coldly, like strangers.
When it came time for university, Emma chose one far away, eager to leave her mother behind. She thrived in student halls, relieved to be free.
“I’ll visit Mum on holiday,” she told herself.
But returning home brought disappointment. Laura was living with Ian, a man just seven years older than Emma. For the first time, Emma saw a drunk in her home—James had never been one for drink, save the odd holiday toast. Ian was always tipsy, disappearing at times, returning in the same state.
“Mum, how can you stand him?” Emma finally asked. “He’s always drinking, always rowing.”
“Not your business,” Laura snapped. “Ian’s had a hard life. Don’t like it? Go to your father.”
Emma left—just in time. The night before, with Laura out, Ian had barged into her room. Only her mother’s return stopped him. Emma packed at dawn and fled to her father’s, then back to uni. She couldn’t fathom why Laura excused Ian’s behaviour—his rages, even his violence.
“That flat’s dead to me while he’s there,” she swore.
True to her word, she stayed away. On her fourth year, after exams, she visited her father—now living with Anna, a kind woman who treated Emma well. Then, disaster struck: outside his home, a car hit Emma, breaking her leg.
James visited her in hospital; Anna came when he was away on duty. Reluctantly, Emma called Laura.
“Mum, I’m in hospital.”
Laura promised to come. She did—with a stranger in tow.
“Darling, this is a solicitor. You must sign these papers. Your father didn’t provide, but I won’t leave my daughter homeless. This flat will be yours when I’m gone—my word on it.”
Emma signed.
After graduating, she stayed in London, working hard, dreaming of her own flat—though how, she didn’t know. She called Laura once.
“Mum, how are you?”
“Oh, getting by. Split with Ian—had enough of his drinking.”
“Finally!” Emma sighed in relief.
“Changes, though—I sold the flat, bought a two-bed. You’ll visit, and one day, it’ll be yours.”
But the details were hazy. Emma called Theresa, an old neighbour.
“Emma, didn’t you know? Your mother pulled a fast one. You signed it over—Ian owns your flat now. They’ve moved. Get legal advice—she sold it, furnishings and all.”
The truth crushed Emma. Laura had transferred the flat to Ian—his own place sold, the money squandered on drink. The papers Emma signed in hospital? She’d trusted her mother. Who else was there to trust?
She confronted Laura, finding her tipsy.
“Mum, why did you steal my home?”
“Oh, Emma, don’t be dramatic. Earn your own! Fancy a drink?”
Emma stared in disgust. This was how Laura would end—just like her own mother, spiralling down. Even James, decent and patient, had left her. He still cared for Emma, shielding her with kindness.
“Don’t fret, love,” he told her. “We’ll save for your flat—take a loan if needed. Just choose your husband wisely. Anyone special?”
“There is, Dad—Ethan, from work. He’s like you. I know who to pick.”
Emma cut ties with Laura, who never reached out. “My life’s exciting,” she’d sneered. “What’s yours?”
Their views would never align. Emma would never understand her mother’s idea of “exciting”—a slow, shameful decline.
**Lesson:** Blood may bind, but trust must be earned. A parent’s love should nurture—not exploit. Choose wisely whom you rely on, for not all who call themselves family deserve the title.
