“You’re a monster, Mum! People like you shouldn’t have children!”
After school, Poppy left her small provincial town for London to continue her studies. One night, she went clubbing with friends and met Oliver—a Londoner, handsome, his parents away on a year-long assignment abroad. She fell head over heels for him and soon moved into his flat.
They lived lavishly, with Oliver’s parents sending money. Every night was either clubs or house parties. At first, Poppy loved it. Before she knew it, she’d piled up debts, missed classes, and failed her winter exams, facing expulsion.
She promised to buckle down and retake them. True to her word, she buried herself in books. When Oliver’s mates came over, she locked herself in the bathroom. She managed to pass her retakes but begged Oliver to settle down—his final year was ending soon.
“Come on, Pop. You only live once. Youth doesn’t last. If we can’t have fun now, when can we?” he’d say carelessly.
Too ashamed to admit to her mother she was living unwed, she lied over the phone, saying they’d married in a registry office and would have a proper wedding when his parents returned.
One day, Poppy felt ill during lectures—dizzy, nauseous. She realised with horror she’d missed her period. A pregnancy test confirmed it.
The baby was still small, and Oliver pushed for an abortion. They fought terribly—he stormed out and vanished for two days. Poppy was distraught, crying and waiting. When he finally returned, he wasn’t alone—a drunk blonde clung to him, barely standing. Exhausted, Poppy screamed at him, demanding the girl leave.
“She’s staying. If you don’t like it, *you* get out, you hysterical cow!” he shouted, then slapped her across the face.
She grabbed her coat and ran. She walked all the way to her dorm, face swollen, mascara smeared, and knocked on the door. The concierge took pity and let her in.
The next day, Oliver came begging forgiveness, swearing he’d never hit her again, pleading for her return. Poppy believed him—for the baby’s sake.
Somehow, she scraped through her first year. Terrified to go home, yet terrified to stay in London—Oliver’s parents were due back soon, and she’d be showing.
When they returned, his father took one look at Poppy—provincial, barely into her second year—and offered her money to leave his son alone.
“Be reasonable. What kind of father would he be? All he cares about is partying. Besides, how do we even know it’s his? Take the money. Go home. It’s better for everyone.”
Humiliated, Poppy refused, though she’d later regret it. Oliver stayed silent. She packed and left for her mother’s.
The moment her mother saw her on the doorstep, belly visible, she knew.
“Where’s your husband?” she asked sharply, blocking the doorway. “I assume there *is* no husband? That London boy had his fun and tossed you out? Did he at least give you money?”
“Mum, how can you say that? I don’t want his money.”
“Then why come here? We barely scraped by when it was just us. I thought you’d struck gold—married a Londoner, living the high life. Instead, you turn up knocked up. How are we supposed to fit four of us in this tiny flat? Four—with a screaming baby?”
“Four?” Poppy whispered, confused.
“While you were off gallivanting, *I* found someone. What? I’m not dead yet. I deserve happiness too. Raised you alone, never had time for myself. He’s younger. I won’t have him gawping at you.”
“Where am I supposed to go, Mum? I’m due soon,” Poppy choked out.
“Go back to your *husband*—or whatever he is. He got you pregnant; let him provide.”
Her mother stood firm—no pity, no warmth. Their relationship had never been close, but now it was like speaking to a stranger.
Poppy picked up her bag and left. She collapsed onto a bench, sobbing. Where could she go? Not even her own mother wanted her or her unborn child. For a moment, she considered stepping onto the road—until the baby kicked, as if sensing her despair.
“…Poppy?” A girl stopped in front of her. Blinking through tears, Poppy barely recognised her.
“It’s me, Sophie Wilson. We went to school together. Why are you crying?” Sophie sat beside her, then noticed the bump. “You’re pregnant?”
Poppy broke down and told her everything.
“Come stay with me. My parents are at their holiday home till autumn. You can’t sleep on the street.”
Poppy agreed—where else could she go? She was exhausted, starving.
Sophie’s flat was warm and welcoming. “Make yourself at home,” she said, already heading to the kitchen. “I’ll fix you food. I’m training to be a nurse—working at the hospital over summer. Heard you were studying in London?”
“*Was* studying,” Poppy murmured, closing her eyes.
Two days later, Sophie burst in excitedly.
“There’s an elderly lady at the hospital—recovering from a stroke, can’t walk but sharp as a tack. Her daughter refused to take her home—claims she’s cramped in a tiny flat with three kids. They need a live-in carer. I thought of you. The daughter’s meeting us at five.”
“But I’m due soon!” Poppy protested.
“Just come. No one else wants the job. Hide your bump a bit. Trust me, she’ll take you.”
“How can I care for an invalid while pregnant? She’ll need lifting, washing, nappy changes!”
“I’ll teach you. It’s not every day. And I’ll help. Poppy, this is your best shot—a roof, food.”
“And after the baby?”
“We’ll cross that bridge later. Come on.”
Terrified but desperate, Poppy agreed.
The daughter—a sour-faced woman—scanned Poppy head to toe.
“Pregnant? Can you handle it?”
“She’ll manage. I’m training as a nurse—I’ll help. She’s got nowhere else,” Sophie interjected.
“Suit yourself. But don’t expect the flat. No wages either—just her pension for expenses. Receipts for everything. Call only in emergencies.” With that, she left.
The old lady—Mrs. Eleanor Whitmore—watched Poppy’s belly with watery eyes.
“Yes, I’m pregnant. But I’ll manage,” Poppy said firmly.
Sophie added, “Her own mother kicked her out.”
Poppy elbowed her. “Would you like anything? Water?”
Mrs. Whitmore mumbled faintly.
“That’s a ‘no.’ You’ll learn her sounds. Let’s check the fridge,” Sophie said, steering Poppy away.
So Poppy moved in. Mrs. Whitmore was quiet, often tearful. Poppy wiped her cheeks, fed her, even confided her struggles.
A month later, Poppy went into labour. Sophie cared for Mrs. Whitmore while she was in hospital. Poppy gave birth to a tiny girl—Lily.
Juggling a newborn and an invalid was gruelling. One day, leaving Lily in her pram by Mrs. Whitmore’s bed, Poppy rushed to the kitchen—the porridge was boiling over. When she returned, Mrs. Whitmore was humming, and Lily drifted to sleep.
From then on, Mrs. Whitmore helped—her murmurs soothed Lily, freeing Poppy’s hands.
Time passed. Lily began toddling; Mrs. Whitmore declined. Soon, she died peacefully in her sleep.
Poppy called the daughter, who arrived coldly. “Pack your things. The flat’s being sold.”
Poppy begged, “Can I stay till it sells? I’ve nowhere—”
“Not my problem.”
While clearing her mother’s things, the daughter found a will—leaving the flat to Poppy. She exploded.
“I’ll contest this! You scheming little— Did you even *let* her die?”
Poppy, bewildered, called Sophie, who explained: Mrs. Whitmore, sensing her end, had summoned a notary.
“You were distracted with Lily. I had a doctor confirm her sound mind. No court will evict a mother and child. The neighbours will vouch—her daughter never visited, *you* cared for her.”
The court sided with Poppy. She kept the flat. Lily started nursery; Poppy took a receptionist job, moonlighting as a carer.
Just as life stabilised, her mother reappeared—weeping on the doorstep. She claimed a major surgery had bankrupted her; she’d sold her flat to pay. Now she’d come to live out her days.
Pitty won. She let her in.
One sunny afternoon, while out with Lily and Sophie, Poppy realised she’d forgottenShe turned back to fetch her phone, only to overhear her mother on a call, laughing and boasting about how she’d fooled Poppy into taking her in while secretly saving money for her reckless boyfriend, and in that moment, Poppy finally understood—some wounds never heal, but she refused to let them define her.
