“What the hell are you doing on my laptop?” Alex loomed over Emily. She had never seen him like this before.
Emily came home from school and immediately smelled the stale stench of alcohol in the hallway. Loud snores echoed from the living room—her father was drunk again. Without hesitation, she went straight to the kitchen.
Her mother stood at the sink, peeling potatoes. Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned. Emily’s sharp eyes instantly caught the red, swollen cheek.
“Mum, let’s leave him. How much longer can we take this? He could kill you,” Emily said bitterly.
“Where would we go? Who would take us in? We can’t afford rent. Don’t worry, he won’t kill me. He’s a coward—only dares to raise his fists at me.”
The next morning, Emily woke to strange noises. She crept into the kitchen and found her father at the stove, tilting his head back as he drank straight from the kettle. Mesmerised, she watched his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. The gurgling sound of water sliding down his throat filled the silence. *Let him choke. Please, let him choke!* she thought with hatred.
But he didn’t. He set the kettle down with a satisfied grunt, shot her a bleary, bloodshot glare, and brushed past her to the bathroom.
A shiver ran through Emily at the thought of her mother refilling the kettle without washing it first. She grabbed the kettle and scrubbed it fiercely, vowing never to pour a cup without cleaning it thoroughly.
During the Christmas holidays, Emily’s class went on a three-day trip to London. When she returned, her mother was in the hospital.
“Did *he* do this?” Emily demanded, staring at the bandage wrapped around her mother’s head.
“No, of course not. I slipped on the ice.”
But Emily knew she was lying.
Years of head injuries led to her mother developing high blood pressure. Six months later, she had a stroke and died. At the wake, Emily’s father wept drunken tears, one moment mourning his beloved Anna, the next cursing her.
He told Emily she was just like her mum, threatened that if she ever tried to leave him, he’d kill her. Emily endured until graduation. She skipped the prom and quietly collected her diploma the next day while her father was at work. Then, she packed her things and ran.
Her father gave her grocery money, and she stashed some away—even slipped a few notes from his pockets while he slept. It wasn’t much, but enough to survive. She’d decided long ago—she’d work, study remotely, and never look back.
She wasn’t afraid he’d come after her. The local police and neighbours knew about his drinking; no one would help him find her. She moved to Manchester, rented a shabby but cheap flat on the outskirts, and got a job at Burger King. The benefits helped—they covered her medical check-ups and provided free meals.
She enrolled in an accounting course at a local college. When her managers found out she was studying, they promoted her to cashier.
Boys tried flirting with her. “They’re all sweet at first,” her mother used to say. “Gentle, charming. Then they start drinking or cheating. Who knows which is worse? Don’t trust their honeyed words, love. I was pretty once too. Your father didn’t drink when we met. We loved each other. And look where that got us.”
Emily never forgot those words. She ignored the boys’ advances. She’d seen enough of her parents’ life.
Her mother had always spent wisely—stocking up on pasta, rice, tinned food, anything that would last. Her father drank his wages, but there was always food on the table, even if it was plain. Now, Emily did the same.
One evening, laden with heavy shopping bags, she bumped into a guy glued to his phone.
“Sorry,” he muttered, finally looking up.
Emily wanted to snap at him to watch where he was going, but stopped when she saw his warm, apologetic smile.
“It’s fine, my fault,” she said, softening.
He offered to help carry her bags. Hesitant, she handed one over. *Someone with a smile like that can’t be bad.* They chatted, and he easily carried it to her door—though she didn’t let him inside.
The next day, he showed up at Burger King. Claimed it was a coincidence, but Emily knew better. They started dating.
Alex admitted he was divorced, that he had a little daughter he adored. He’d left his ex the house and was crashing with a mate. “We just weren’t right for each other,” he said.
He talked about his daughter constantly, and Emily trusted him—a man who loved his child couldn’t be bad. A month later, he suggested moving in together.
“Let’s find a decent place in the city. Easier to manage with two,” he said.
Emily agreed, floating on happiness. A real family at last. They rented a one-bed flat, celebrated quietly. Alex paid the first two months’ rent upfront.
But by the third month, his tone changed.
“I overspent on my daughter’s birthday present,” he apologised. “And child support…”
It didn’t matter—they were a team now. She paid. Then, every month, there was a new excuse: his daughter was ill, his parents needed help. Rent became her responsibility.
When she found out she was pregnant, she rushed to tell him. No sweeping her off her feet, no joyous spinning—just a nod.
“Aren’t you happy?” she asked, hurt.
“Just surprised. But yeah, I am.” He hugged her.
She pushed the disappointment aside, humming as she tidied. But time passed, and no proposal came. Then the morning sickness hit. The smell of food turned her stomach. Alex had to cook for himself.
“My ex never had this. Maybe something’s wrong with you,” he snapped one day.
*His ex.* The words stung. *Then what am I?*
“It’s different for everyone. It’ll pass,” she forced out.
It did. But her appetite surged. She ate everything, gaining weight fast. Her clothes no longer fit. One evening, Alex eyed her new dress.
“We’re broke, and you’re buying clothes?”
“I need something to wear. Another expensive gift for your daughter?”
“She’s *my* child. I’ll always put her first. You knew that.”
“What about *our* baby? Do you even want it?”
His slap sent her reeling. Her cheek burned.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, dropping to his knees, tears in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to.”
He kissed her hands, swore it’d never happen again. She forgave him. *He’s not like Dad. Dad never apologised.*
But the anger in his eyes that night haunted her.
Months passed. Near her due date, while Alex was out, she opened his laptop to search for cheap prams. Prices depressed her—second-hand would have to do.
Then she accidentally clicked a folder. A young woman grinned at her from the screen, arms full of autumn leaves. Another photo—same girl, smiling. *His ex?* No, she’d be older. *This girl’s twenty at most.*
*He’s cheating. You know nothing about him. You only know what he’s told you. What if he lied about the divorce? What if he’s not visiting his daughter?*
The baby kicked, sensing her panic.
The front door clicked. She slammed the laptop shut, heart pounding.
“You okay?” Alex asked, sensing her tension.
“Fine. Just a bad dream.”
But the laptop screen glowed—she hadn’t closed it properly.
“Were you on my laptop?” His voice turned icy.
“I was looking at prams.”
He flipped it open. “In *my* photos?”
“I—I clicked by accident.”
“Colleague’s wife,” he said flatly. “Sent them by mistake.”
“On your desktop?”
“I saved them without looking.”
“You’re lying!”
His fist hit the wall behind her. “Yes, I’m seeing someone! And it’s *your* fault! You were slim, sweet. Now look at you—fat, nagging. Just like my ex!”
She stumbled back, struck by déjà vu—her father, the kettle, the smell of booze.
A sharp pain tore through her. She doubled over.
Alex called an ambulance.
Two hours later, in a hospital bed, she heard:
“A boy. Premature, but stable.”
*Mine. Only mine.*
Four days later, discharged but alone, she returned for her things.
Alex sneered. “Where’s the kid?”
“Still in hospital.”
“Take your stuff and go.”
At the women’s shelter, she lay on a stiff bed, thinking of her son.
*Mum was right. They’re all the same in the end. But I won’t let him hurt you. We’ll be okay.*
The lesson wasAs she held her son for the first time, whispering promises of a better life, she vowed never to let history repeat itself—not for her, and certainly not for him.
