“What the hell are you doing in my laptop?” Alex loomed over Emily. She had never seen him like this before.
Emily came home from school and immediately smelled the stale reek of alcohol in the hallway. Loud snoring echoed from the living room. Her father was drunk again. She walked straight to the kitchen.
Her mother stood at the sink, peeling potatoes. Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned. Emily’s sharp eyes caught the swollen, red mark on her cheek.
“Mum, let’s leave him. How much longer will we tolerate this? He could kill you one day,” Emily said, her voice tight with anger.
“And go where? Who needs us? We can’t afford rent. Don’t worry—he won’t kill me. He’s a coward. Only dares to wave his fists at me.”
The next morning, strange noises woke Emily. She crept into the kitchen and saw her father by the stove, tipping his head back as he drank directly from the kettle. She stared, mesmerized, at his bobbing Adam’s apple. Up and down. Up and down. The sound of gulping water made her stomach twist. *Let him choke. Please, let him choke.*
But he didn’t. He set the kettle down, grunted in satisfaction, glared at her with bloodshot eyes, and trudged past her to the bathroom.
Emily shuddered at the thought of her mother refilling that kettle without washing it first. She grabbed the kettle and scrubbed it furiously, vowing never to drink from it unless it was thoroughly cleaned.
During the Christmas holidays, Emily’s class took a three-day trip to London. When she returned, her mother was in hospital.
“Was it him?” she demanded, seeing the bandages on her mother’s head.
“No, of course not. I slipped on the ice.”
Emily knew she was lying.
Years of blows had left her mother with severe hypertension. Six months later, she suffered a stroke and died. At the wake, her father swayed drunkenly, weeping one moment over his “precious Sarah,” cursing her the next.
He told Emily she was just like her mother, threatening to kill her if she ever tried to leave. Emily counted the days until she finished school. She skipped the prom, quietly collected her diploma the next morning, and while her father was at work, stuffed her things into a bag and ran.
She had saved bits of the grocery money he gave her, sometimes even slipping a few notes from his pocket while he slept. It wasn’t much, but it would keep her afloat. She had decided long ago—she’d find work, study part-time.
She wasn’t afraid he’d search for her. The police and neighbors knew about his drinking. No one would help him. She moved to a bigger city, rented a shabby but cheap flat on the outskirts, and got a job at Chicken Cottage. The perks helped—they covered her food hygiene certificate and gave free meals.
She enrolled in accounting courses at a college. When work found out, they put her on the till.
Boys tried to flirt with her. “They’re all sweet at first, then they start drinking or cheating. I don’t know which is worse. Don’t trust their pretty words, love. Be careful. I was beautiful once too. Your father didn’t drink when we met. We loved each other. But look where that got us,” her mother used to say.
Emily remembered those words and kept her distance. She’d seen enough of her parents’ life.
Her mother had always stocked up on payday—pasta, rice, canned goods, anything long-lasting. Her father drank his wages away, but there was always food, even if it was plain. Now, Emily did the same.
One evening, laden with heavy shopping bags, she nearly collided with a guy staring at his phone.
“Sorry,” he said, glancing up.
Emily meant to snap at him but caught his warm, interested gaze and faltered.
“It’s fine, my fault,” she mumbled, smiling faintly.
He offered to help. Hesitant, she handed him a bag. No one with a smile like that could be bad. They walked together, and he carried it all the way to her door—though she didn’t let him inside.
The next day, he showed up at Chicken Cottage. Claimed it was coincidence, but Emily doubted it. They started dating.
Alex was honest—divorced, with a little girl he adored. He’d left his ex the flat and was living with a mate. “We just couldn’t make it work. Realised we had nothing in common,” he admitted.
He talked about his daughter constantly, and Emily thought, *Anyone who loves kids that much can’t be all bad.* A month later, he suggested moving in together.
“Let’s get a decent place closer to town. It’s easier with two of us.”
She agreed, floating on hope. A real family, at last. They rented a cosy one-bed, celebrated quietly. She didn’t dare dream of weddings. Alex often spoke of kids—two, a boy and a girl. She believed him.
He paid the first two months’ rent upfront. Then, in the third month, he sheepishly asked her to cover it.
“Just tight this month. Daughter’s birthday, alimony…”
How could she refuse? She paid without question. Soon, excuses piled up—his kid was ill, his parents needed help—and rent was always her burden. But they were a family, weren’t they?
When she found out she was pregnant, she told him eagerly. He didn’t sweep her up, spin her around like in films—just nodded indifferently.
“I thought you’d be happy,” she whispered.
“It’s just unexpected,” he said, pulling her into a stiff hug.
Her heart sank, but she buried the doubt.
Then the morning sickness hit. The smell of food turned her stomach. Alex had to cook.
“My ex never got this sick. Maybe something’s wrong with you?” he muttered one evening.
The words stung. *His ex. What am I?*
“It’s different for everyone. It’ll pass,” she said, hiding the hurt.
It did pass—and gave way to insatiable hunger. She gained weight, her clothes no longer fitting.
“You bought a new dress?” Alex frowned.
“I needed something to wear. Or did you spend it all on your daughter?”
His eyes darkened. “She’s my kid. I’ll buy her what she needs. You knew what you signed up for. She comes first.”
“What about me? Where does our baby stand? Maybe you don’t even want it!”
“I didn’t think you’d be like this,” he snapped.
“If she matters more, then neither of us will!” The words erupted before she could stop them.
The slap sent her reeling. Her vision blurred.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean—” Alex was on his knees, begging, crying. She pitied him. Forgave him.
But it happened again.
Then she found the photos—a young woman, smiling, leaves in her hands. Recent.
Alex caught her. “What the hell were you doing in my laptop?”
His face twisted. She’d never seen him like this.
“I was looking at baby things—I opened the folder by mistake—”
“A colleague’s wife. He sent the wrong files,” he lied smoothly.
“On email? Then why are they saved on your desktop? You’re cheating!”
His fist cracked against her skull. She slid to the floor, pain blinding her.
“Look at yourself—a fat cow. Who’d want you?”
She crawled away, clutching her belly. Another contraction hit.
A neighbour called an ambulance.
Later, in the maternity ward, she heard the doctor say, “Boy. Premature.”
*Mine. Only mine.*
Alex didn’t come.
Four days later, discharged but alone, she went back for her things.
“You left the baby?” Alex scoffed.
“He’s in the NICU.”
She packed quickly, spotting another woman’s robe in the bathroom.
“Leaving? Don’t expect child support. You’ll regret this,” he spat.
A shelter took her in.
*Mum was right. They’re all the same. But I won’t let him hurt my son.*
Lying on a thin mattress, she whispered promises to her baby. *We’ll be okay. I’ll keep you safe.*
Some lessons come too late—but once learned, they are never forgotten.
