“You’re a monster, Mum! People like you shouldn’t have children!”
Emily had dreamed of studying in London, escaping her dull hometown. One night out with friends at a club, she met James—a handsome Londoner whose parents were away on a year-long business trip abroad. She fell for him instantly and soon moved in with him.
They lived lavishly, funded by his parents’ money—clubbing every night, hosting parties. At first, Emily loved it. But before she knew it, she was drowning in debt and missed classes, barely scraping through winter exams. She faced expulsion.
She swore to turn things around, burying herself in books. When James’ friends came over, she locked herself in the bathroom. Eventually, she retook her exams—then begged James to settle down. He was in his final year, after all.
“Relax, Em,” he’d laugh. “You only live once. Youth doesn’t last. When else are we supposed to have fun?”
Too ashamed to admit she was living with a boyfriend, Emily lied to her mother—claiming they’d married quietly, with a proper wedding planned once his parents returned.
Then, during lectures, Emily felt sick—dizzy, nauseous. She checked her calendar and froze. A pregnancy test confirmed it.
James pushed for an abortion. They fought viciously—he stormed out and vanished for days. Emily sobbed, waiting. When he returned, he wasn’t alone. A tipsy blonde clung to him, barely standing. Exhausted, Emily screamed at him to get rid of her.
“She’s staying. If you don’t like it, get out!” he shouted—then slapped her across the face.
She grabbed her coat and fled to her old student halls. The night porter took pity and let her in.
The next day, James begged forgiveness, swore he’d never hurt her again. For the baby’s sake, she believed him.
Somehow, she passed her first year. Too afraid to go home, yet terrified to stay—James’ parents would return soon, and there she was, pregnant and miserable.
When they arrived, his father took one look at her and offered money to leave.
“Be reasonable. He’s not father material—all he cares about is parties. And who’s to say it’s even his? Take the money. Go home. It’s better for everyone.”
Humiliated, Emily refused—though she’d regret it later. James stayed silent. She packed up and returned to her mother.
The moment her mother saw her belly, she knew.
“Where’s your husband?” she snapped, blocking the doorway. “So he used you and threw you out? Did he at least pay you?”
“Mum, how can you—? I don’t want his money.”
“Then why come here? We could barely afford this place before. I thought you’d landed a catch—married a Londoner, living the dream. Instead, you’re back with a bastard. Where are we supposed to fit? The four of us?”
“Four…?” Emily whispered.
Her mother smirked. “While you were off gallivanting, I found someone. I’m not dead yet—I deserve happiness too. He’s younger. I won’t have him gawking at you.”
“Where am I supposed to go? I’m about to give birth!”
“Back to your ‘husband.’ He knocked you up—let him deal with it.”
No sympathy, no kindness. Just coldness. Emily took her bag and left.
On a bench outside, she wept. No one wanted her—not even her own mother. For a moment, she considered stepping into traffic—but the baby kicked. She couldn’t do it.
“Emily?” A voice cut through her tears.
She looked up—Sophie, an old schoolfriend.
“You’re pregnant?” Sophie gasped. Emily spilled everything.
“Come stay with me. My parents are away till autumn. We’ll figure it out.”
With no options, Emily agreed.
Days later, Sophie returned from her hospital job, excited.
“There’s an elderly stroke patient—her daughter won’t take her in. She’s looking for a live-in carer. I thought of you.”
“But I’m pregnant—how can I—?”
“I’ll help. It’s a roof over your head.”
They met the daughter—a brash woman who sneered, “No wages, just board. And don’t think you’ll get the flat.”
Emily moved in with frail Mrs. Thompson. A month later, she gave birth to a daughter, Lily.
Juggling a crying baby and a bedridden woman was hell—until she noticed Mrs. Thompson humming to Lily, soothing her. They formed a quiet bond.
Time passed. Lily learned to walk; Mrs. Thompson grew weaker. When she died, her daughter swooped in, demanding Emily leave.
“Over my dead body,” Sophie hissed. “The neighbours will testify you cared for her—while her own daughter never visited.”
They fought—until a will surfaced, leaving the flat to Emily.
Life stabilized. Lily started nursery; Emily worked as a receptionist. Then her mother showed up, crying.
“I had surgery—sold my flat to pay for it. I’ve nowhere else…”
Emily took her in.
One day, rushing back from a walk, Emily overheard her mother on the phone:
“…She’s out. I’ve been saving rent money—almost enough… Oh, I miss you too…”
Emily burst in. “You lied! No surgery, no sale—just funding some man!”
Her mother faltered. “It’s not what—”
“Get out.”
Sophie consoled her later. “Parents aren’t perfect. But she’s still your mum.”
By the time Emily returned, her mother was gone.
Years later, when illness struck, Emily cared for her—until the end.
Hate breeds hate. If a mother won’t love her child, what love can she expect in return?
