“You’re a monster, Mum! People like you shouldn’t have children!”
After finishing school, Emily left her small provincial town for London to continue her studies. One night, she went clubbing with friends and met Jake—a handsome Londoner whose parents were away on a year-long business trip abroad. She fell head over heels for him and soon moved into his flat.
They lived lavishly, thanks to his parents’ generous allowances. Every day was either clubbing or hosting wild parties at home. At first, Emily loved it—until she realised she’d racked up debts and missed so many lectures that she’d failed her winter exams. She was on the verge of being kicked out.
Swearing to turn things around, she buried herself in books. When Jake’s rowdy mates showed up, she locked herself in the bathroom. Miraculously, she passed her resits—but then tried persuading Jake to grow up. He was in his final year, after all.
“Come on, Em, we only live once!” he’d laugh, waving her off. “Youth’s over before you know it. If not now, when?”
Too ashamed to admit she was living with a boyfriend—no ring, no vows—she lied to her mum over the phone, claiming they’d eloped and would have a proper wedding when Jake’s parents returned.
Then one day in class, Emily felt dizzy and nauseous. She checked her calendar and went cold—she was late. A pregnancy test confirmed her fears.
It was early days, so Jake pushed for an abortion. They had their first screaming match, ending with him storming out. For two agonising days, she waited in tears. When he finally returned, he wasn’t alone—a drunk blonde was draped over him, barely standing. Exhausted and furious, Emily shouted at them both to leave.
“She’s not going anywhere. If you don’t like it, *you* sod off, you nutter!” he yelled—then slapped her across the face.
She grabbed her coat and ran. Walked all the way to her university halls, mascara streaked, cheek swollen. The night porter took pity and let her in.
The next day, Jake came begging: apologies, promises he’d never hit her again, pleading for her to come back. For the baby’s sake, she believed him.
Somehow, she scraped through first year. Too terrified to go home yet equally afraid to stay in London, she dreaded the return of Jake’s parents—especially with her bump growing.
Then they arrived. Learning Emily was a provincial girl barely into her second year, Jake’s father had *words*. He offered her money to disappear.
“Be realistic. What kind of father would he be? All he cares about is partying. And who’s to say it’s even his? Take the cash—go home. Trust me, it’s best for everyone.”
Humiliated, Emily refused (though she’d regret it later). Jake said nothing in her defence. She packed up and went home to her mum.
One look at her daughter’s bump, and the truth was plain.
“Where’s *he* then?” her mum said, blocking the doorway. “I take it there’s no wedding ring? Got what he wanted and tossed you out, did he? At least tell me he gave you money.”
“Mum, how can you? I don’t *want* his money!”
“So why come crawling back? We barely scraped by *before*. Thought you’d hit the jackpot—marrying some posh London boy. Instead, you waltz in knocked up. Where d’you think we’ll all fit? Four of us in this shoebox?”
“Four?” Emily’s voice cracked.
“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 it’s *my* turn. He’s younger. Don’t want him ogling you.”
“Where am I supposed to go? I’m due *soon*,” Emily whispered, tears welling.
“Back to the father. He knocked you up—let *him* deal with it.”
No sympathy. No warmth. Their relationship had never been close, but now it was like speaking to a stranger.
Emily picked up her bag and left. Sat on a bench and sobbed. Where now? If even her own mother didn’t care, who would? For a second, she thought of stepping into traffic—until the baby kicked, as if begging not to die under wheels.
“Emily?” A girl stopped in front of her. Blinking through tears, Emily squinted up.
“It’s me—Sophie Williams. From school? Why’re you crying—?” Then Sophie spotted the bump. “Oh. You’re pregnant?”
The floodgates opened. Emily spilled everything.
“Right, you’re coming to mine,” Sophie declared. “Parents are at their holiday home till autumn. You can’t sleep rough.”
With no choice—legs shaking, stomach growling—Emily agreed.
“Make yourself at home,” Sophie said, ushering her in. Emily collapsed onto the sofa, exhausted. Sophie bustled to the kitchen. “I’ll feed you. I’m working at the hospital over break—studying to be a nurse. Heard you were at uni in London?”
“Was,” Emily murmured, closing her eyes.
Two days later, Sophie bounded in, excited.
“There’s this elderly patient on my ward—stroke survivor, can’t walk but sharp as a tack. Her daughter visited today. Refuses to take her home—says she’s got three kids in a tiny flat, husband won’t allow it. Wants us to find a live-in carer. I *immediately* thought of you. They’re expecting us at five.”
“You *told* her I’m due soon?!”
“N-no,” Sophie stammered. “No one else volunteered. Just come—try not to stick your belly out. She’ll hire you!”
“Are you *mad*? How can I care for an invalid while pregnant? She’ll need lifting, washing, nappy changes—”
“I’ll teach you. Bathing’s not daily. I’ll help. Em, it’s *the* solution—roof over your head, food. The old lady’s sweet, not a fusser.”
“And after I give birth? How’ll I manage a newborn *and* her?”
“We’ll cross that bridge later. *Come on*.”
Terrified but trusting Sophie, Emily agreed.
The daughter was a huffy woman in garish lycra. She eyed Emily up and down.
“Pregnant? Can you handle it?”
“She’ll manage. I’ll help—I’m training as a nurse. She’s got nowhere else,” Sophie cut in.
“Not my problem. You’re doing *me* a favour. No wages—just room and board. Here’s Mum’s pension card. Spend it on *her*—I’ll check. Pay the bills. Ring only in emergencies.” With that, she left.
The girls exchanged glances and approached the old woman.
“Her name’s Margaret,” Sophie whispered.
“Hello, Margaret. I’m Emily. I’ll be staying with you. Sophie will pop in too,” Emily said, forcing confidence.
The old woman’s watery eyes flicked to Emily’s belly.
“Yes, I’m pregnant. But I’ll manage.”
“Her own *mother* chucked her out!” Sophie blurted. Emily elbowed her.
“Would you like anything? Water?”
Margaret mumbled.
“That’s a ‘no.’ You’ll learn her sounds. Let’s check the kitchen,” Sophie said, steering Emily away.
And so, Emily moved in with Margaret—gentle but prone to silent tears. Emily wiped them, spoon-fed her, and shared her own messy, truncated life story.
A month later, contractions hit. Sophie covered while Emily was in hospital. She gave birth to a tiny girl—Lily. Terrified Margaret’s daughter would evict them, Emily soon realised the woman couldn’t care less.
Juggling a crying baby and a murmuring invalid, Emily was run ragged. One day, leaving Lily in her pram by Margaret’s bed, she rushed to the kitchen (porridge boiling over)—only to return to Margaret humming while Lily dozed off.
A rhythm formed. Lily slept to Margaret’s garbled tunes; Emily caught up on chores.
Time passed. Lily toddled; Margaret declined. Soon, she died peacefully in her sleep.
Emily called the daughter, who arrived for the funeral—then snapped, “Pack your things. You’re done here.”
“Made yourself *quite* at home,” she sneered, eyeing Lily. “Told you—no flat. I’m selling it.”
“Can I stay until then? I’ve nowhere—”
“And that’s *my* problem?”
While clearing Margaret’s things, the daughter found a will—leaving the flat *to Emily*. She shrieked, scaring Lily.
“I’ll *fight* this in court! Scammer! Probably killed her for the flat!”
StunnedEmily held Lily close, whispered a thank you to Margaret’s memory, and walked out into the sunshine—finally free to build the life she and her daughter truly deserved.
