“You’re a monster, Mum! People like you shouldn’t have children at all!”
Emily had always dreamed of studying in London, far from her small hometown in Yorkshire. But once she arrived, she got swept up in a whirlwind of parties. One night at a club, she met James—a charming Londoner whose parents were away for a year on business abroad. She fell for him head over heels and soon moved in with him.
They lived lavishly, funded by his parents’ money. Clubs, house parties—it was all fun at first. But before she knew it, Emily had piled up debts and missed lectures, barely scraping through her winter exams. Her university threatened to expel her.
She promised to buckle down, locking herself in the bathroom when James’s friends came over. Somehow, she passed her resits. But when she tried to talk sense into James—final year, degree on the line—he just laughed.
“Come on, Em! You only live once. When else are we supposed to have fun, if not in our twenties?”
Too ashamed to tell her mum she was living unwed, Emily lied over the phone, claiming they’d eloped and would have a proper wedding when his parents returned.
Then she fell ill during a lecture—dizzy, nauseous. A pregnancy test confirmed her fears.
James pushed for an abortion. Their first real fight ended with him storming out. Two days later, he stumbled home drunk, another girl clinging to him. Exhausted and heartbroken, Emily screamed at him to make her leave.
“She’s staying. If you don’t like it, *you* can get out!” he snarled—then slapped her.
She fled to her student halls, tear-streaked and bruised. The caretaker took pity and let her in.
James apologised the next day, swore he’d never hurt her again. For the baby’s sake, she believed him.
Somehow, she finished her first year. Too scared to go home, too scared to stay—especially when James’s parents returned. His father took her aside, offering money to leave.
“Be realistic. What kind of father would he be? And how do we even know it’s his? Take the money. Go home. It’s better for everyone.”
Humiliated, Emily refused—though she’d later regret it. She packed her bags and returned to her mum’s.
The moment her mother saw her bump, the questions began.
“Back alone, then? So much for your fancy London wedding. Did he at least give you money?”
“Mum, how can you—? I don’t *want* his money.”
“Then why come here? We barely scraped by before. I thought you’d landed a golden ticket, but no—you’re back with a belly. And where’s *my* life in all this? I’ve got a bloke now. Younger. I won’t have him eyeing you up.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” Emily whispered, tears prickling.
“Back to the father. He knocked you up—let *him* deal with it.”
Her mother stood firm, cold. No pity, no warmth. Just a stranger in her own home.
Emily left, collapsing onto a park bench in tears. Where could she go? If even her own mother didn’t care, who would? She considered stepping in front of a car—until the baby kicked, as if begging her not to.
“Emily?”
She looked up through bleary eyes. A familiar face—Sarah, an old school friend.
Sarah took her in. Days later, she brought news: an elderly stroke patient needed a live-in carer.
“It’s not ideal, but it’s a roof. I’ll help,” Sarah insisted.
The woman’s daughter barely glanced at Emily before handing over her mum’s pension card. “Spend it on *her*, not yourself.”
So Emily moved in with Margaret, who could barely speak. She fed her, bathed her, confided in her. When Emily went into labour, Sarah stepped in.
Baby Lily arrived—tiny, perfect.
Margaret softened, humming to soothe her. Emily juggled them both until, one day, Margaret passed peacefully in her sleep.
Her daughter swooped in, demanding the flat back—until a will surfaced, leaving it to Emily.
“You conned her!” the daughter spat.
But the courts sided with Emily. She had witnesses, proof of care.
Years later, just as life settled—Lily in nursery, Emily working—her mother reappeared, weeping.
“I had surgery. Sold my flat to pay for it. I’ve nowhere else…”
Emily took her in.
Then, one afternoon, she overheard her mum on the phone:
“They’re out… Don’t worry, I’m saving the rent money. Soon I’ll have enough… Me? Oh, I’m *fine*—just playing the dying swan for sympathy.”
Emily stormed in. “You *lied*? You *kept* your flat? All this—for some *man*?”
Her mother stammered excuses, but Emily had heard enough. “Get out.”
Sarah, ever wise, murmured, “She’s still your mum. Wouldn’t you rather forgive her?”
But when Emily returned, her mother was gone.
Hate breeds hate. If a mother won’t love her child, what love can she expect in return?
Her mother eventually went home—alone, abandoned by her lover. Years later, when illness took her, Emily nursed her to the end.
Because some bonds, however broken, can’t be severed. Not really.
