“You’re a monster, Mum! People like you shouldn’t have kids!”
Vera had always dreamed of escaping her small town. When she got into university in London, she thought her life would change for the better. But instead of focusing on her studies, she got carried away. One night, she went clubbing with friends and met Jake—a handsome Londoner whose parents were abroad for a year. She fell head over heels and soon moved in with him.
They lived lavishly, thanks to his parents’ money—clubbing every weekend, throwing parties. At first, Vera loved it. Before she knew it, she was drowning in debts and missed lectures, barely scraping through her winter exams. She was on the verge of getting kicked out.
She promised to turn things around, buried herself in books. When Jake’s friends came over, she locked herself in the bathroom. Somehow, she passed her resits—but she begged Jake to slow down. He was in his final year; his degree was on the line.
“Come on, Vera. You only live once. Youth doesn’t last—when else are we supposed to have fun?” he’d say, brushing her off.
She was too ashamed to tell her mum she was living with a guy unmarried. Every phone call home was a lie: “We’re married, just a quick registry—we’ll have the wedding when his parents get back.”
Then one day, Vera felt dizzy in class. Nausea hit, and horror struck when she counted the weeks—she was pregnant. The test confirmed it.
When she told Jake, he pushed for an abortion. They fought bitterly—the first real fight. He stormed out and didn’t come back for two days. Vera cried, waited, barely slept. When he finally returned, he wasn’t alone—a drunk blonde clung to him, barely standing. Exhausted and heartbroken, Vera screamed at him, shoving the girl toward the door.
“She’s staying. If you don’t like it, *you* get out, you psycho!” He slapped her—hard.
She grabbed her coat and ran. Walked all the way to student halls. The porter took pity and let her in—face swollen, mascara streaked, tears streaming.
The next day, Jake came begging. Promised he’d never raise a hand to her again. For the baby’s sake, Vera believed him.
She barely passed first year. Too scared to go home—what would her mum say? But staying in London terrified her too. Jake’s parents were due back soon, and there she’d be—pregnant, a wreck.
When his parents returned, his father took one look at Vera—small-town, barely in second year—and cut to the chase. Offered her money to leave.
“Be honest—what kind of father would he be? All he cares about is partying. Hell, is it even his kid? Take the money. Go home. Trust me, it’s better for everyone.”
Humiliated, Vera refused—though she’d regret it later. Jake stayed silent. She packed up and went back to her mum.
The moment her mother saw her pregnant on the doorstep, she knew.
“Where’s your husband?” she asked coldly, blocking the door. “Guessing that was a lie too. Had his fun, then threw you out? At least tell me he gave you money.”
“Mum, how can you—? I don’t want his money!”
“Then why come back? We barely scraped by just us two. Thought you’d hit the jackpot—married a Londoner, living the dream. Instead, you turn up knocked up. And where exactly are we meant to fit a baby in this dump?”
“A baby? Who else is here?” Vera asked, voice breaking.
“While you were off gallivanting, *I* met someone. What? I’m not dead yet—I deserve happiness too. Raised you alone, never had a life. Now I do. He’s younger. I don’t want him eyeing you up.”
“Where am I supposed to go, Mum? I’m due soon!”
“Go back to your *husband*—or whatever he is. He knocked you up, let him take care of you.”
No pity. No warmth. Just cold dismissal. Vera grabbed her bag and left. Sat on a bench and sobbed. Where could she go? If even her own mother didn’t care, who would? For a second, she thought of stepping into traffic—but the baby kicked, like it was begging her not to.
“Vera?” A voice startled her. Through tears, she barely recognized the face.
“It’s me, Sophie Wilson. From school. What’s wrong?” Sophie sat beside her, then noticed the bump. “You’re pregnant?”
Vera broke down, spilling everything.
“Come stay with me,” Sophie said firmly. “My parents are at their holiday home till autumn. You can’t sleep on the streets.”
With no choice, Vera agreed.
Sophie’s flat was warm, safe. “Rest,” she said, heading to the kitchen. “I’m training to be a nurse—hospital work pays the bills.”
Two days later, Sophie came home excited.
“Elderly woman at my ward—stroke survivor, can’t walk but sharp as a tack. Her daughter just refused to take her home—says her husband won’t allow it. She’s looking for a live-in carer. I thought of you.”
“But I’m pregnant!” Vera protested.
“Just meet her. Please.”
The daughter—a brash woman in a tracksuit—barely looked at Vera.
“Pregnant? Can you handle it?”
*She* answered for her. “She’ll manage. I’ll help. She’s got nowhere else.”
“Fine. No wages—just room and board. Mum’s pension covers expenses. Don’t mess up.”
And just like that, Vera became a carer.
Anna was quiet, often tearful. Vera fed her, wiped her face, whispered her own story. A month later, she went into labour. Sophie stepped in while Vera was in hospital.
She named her baby Lily.
Juggling a newborn and Anna was hell—until one day, she left Lily in her pram by Anna’s bed. When she returned, Anna was humming—Lily asleep to the sound.
From then on, Anna soothed her. Lily thrived; Vera found her footing.
But Anna faded. One night, she passed peacefully in her sleep.
Her daughter swooped in for the funeral—then ruthlessly kicked Vera out.
“I warned you—no handouts. Pack up.”
While clearing Anna’s things, though, she found a will. The flat was Vera’s.
The daughter screeched, threatened court. “You conned her!”
Sophie stepped in. “Anna called a notary. Witnesses confirmed she was sound of mind. Try evicting a single mum—see how that goes.”
Vera kept the flat. Lily started nursery; Vera took a receptionist job, picked up care shifts.
Just as life settled, her mum turned up—weeping.
“I had surgery. Sold the flat to pay for it. Nowhere to go.”
Vera, despite everything, took her in.
Until the day she forgot her phone. Rushing back, she overheard her mum on a call:
*”She’s out… Yes, I’m saving up… Taping my stomach to fake the weight loss…”*
Vera burst in. “You lied! No surgery—just scheming for your boyfriend’s debts!”
Her mum floundered. “It’s not what you think—”
“Get out. Now.”
She left without a word.
Later, Sophie asked softly, “What’ll you do?”
Vera sighed. “I don’t know. But I won’t become her.”
Years passed. Her mum’s lover left when the money dried up. When she fell ill—really ill—Vera cared for her until the end.
Hate breeds hate. But breaking the cycle? That’s the hardest part.
