“You don’t owe anyone anything now. Only your child…”
Mary had a rare day off and decided to treat her family to something sweet. After some thought, she settled on an apple crumble—her household’s favourite. But when she peered into the cupboard, she realised she was out of flour. Slipping on her coat and locking the door behind her, she hurried to the nearest shop. The house was empty—her husband, William, and their sons had gone to visit his parents in the neighbouring village, and their daughter, she knew, was still in the city.
Yet when she returned with her purchases, unease prickled at her. Someone was home. And not just anyone—her daughter’s shoes stood by the doorstep. Her chest tightened. Quietly setting the bags down in the kitchen, she made her way to her daughter’s room and froze. There, curled on the bed, sobbing, was her Emily.
For a moment, Mary was at a loss, but she quickly steadied herself. Sitting beside Emily, she smoothed her hair. Between hiccuping breaths, the story spilled out. How she’d met Thomas, how he’d sworn his love, how they’d been together nearly a year. And how, in an instant, it had all shattered.
When Emily discovered she was with child, fear had flickered, but joy had followed. She’d planned to tell Thomas first, then her parents. But Thomas had been far more afraid. Terrified, even. He vanished—ignoring calls, erasing her from his life as if she’d never existed.
“Mum,” Emily wept, “please don’t be angry… I didn’t mean to hide it. I just thought—I thought it would be different.”
Mary said nothing. Not from anger, but from the ache of her daughter’s hurt. She pulled Emily close and whispered,
“You owe no one anything, understand? Only your little one. The rest, we’ll sort it. Together.”
That evening, when William returned with the boys, Mary told him what had happened. He was silent a long while. Then he looked at Emily, at Mary, and smiled.
“Well, love… You know I always fancied a third daughter. Suppose we’ll have a granddaughter instead. Or a grandson. And truth be told—it’s a blessing. Unexpected, aye, and not easy. But ours.”
Mary exhaled in relief. William was a simple man, but steadfast. Emily managed a tearful smile. That night, they dined as a family, already knowing their home would soon welcome one more.
After discussion, they decided Emily would take a gap year, returning to her studies once the baby was born. William forbade any search for Thomas outright.
“That sort won’t be part of this family. We’ve no room for cowards.”
All agreed.
But as often happens, the village buzzed. Whispers slithered—”Caught in trouble,” “Some married man’s, likely,” “Her own fault.” No one dared say it to their faces, yet Mary felt the weight of their stares.
One day at the shop, the local gossip—Margaret—sidled up.
“Afternoon, Mary. Heard about your Emily. Who’s the father, then? Or doesn’t she know?”
Mary wordlessly placed a box of candles on the counter.
“Here—might help you see clearer while poking about in other folks’ business. ‘Cause I’ve seen nothing amiss with my daughter. But you? Might need a bit more light.”
The queue burst into laughter. Margaret paled and held her tongue after that.
Emily had a girl. They named her Eleanor. William adored her. Two years later, Emily married a kind man who loved the child as his own. They lived long, contented lives—in love, in respect.
As a proper family should.
