**Sorting Out Her Love Life**
“Mum, what’s all the fuss? Darren said he loves me. We’re getting married,” Zoe said, unusually calm.
“How can I *not* fuss? You’re pregnant, not married, haven’t even finished college, and I’ve never even met this Darren of yours! Do you think a baby’s some sort of toy? Get him over here *today* to look me in the eye and swear he’ll take responsibility, understand?”
“Stop shouting, I thought you’d be happy about a grandchild. I’ll fetch Darren—he’ll be back from work soon. I’ve got a key to his flat. Better wait there; you’re being such a nag,” Zoe muttered, flouncing out with her handbag swinging carelessly.
Margaret clutched her chest, sinking onto a kitchen stool, and stared at her late husband’s photo.
“There it is—no father in sight!” she said to the picture. “Oh, dear John, why’d you leave us so soon? I’ve failed our Zoe—reckless as they come. What if this lad walks away? How will we manage? My wages are barely enough, and who’d hire a pregnant girl with six months left of her course? Blimey, what a mess!”
Margaret buried her face in her apron, tears soaking the fabric. Life had weighed heavy on her since John died at the lumberyard when Zoe was just two. Their little terraced house in the suburbs had seen better days—Margaret scraping by, raising Zoe on her own, while neighbours and her best mate watched quietly. She’d always given Zoe the best bite off her plate. And just when things had steadied, her own daughter dropped this bombshell.
“Right. Best bake a pie—son-in-law’s coming, after all. Oh, Zoe, Zoe…”
Once the table was set, Margaret changed into her “good dress” and knitted socks to steady her nerves.
Then—*thud*—the front door. Zoe stepped in. Margaret peered behind her—no one.
“Where’s the groom? Left him on the step?”
“Gone,” Zoe sniffed. “He ditched me.”
“*What?*” Margaret sank onto a chair.
“Just like that! Quit his job, packed his bags, and vanished. That’s what the landlord said…”
Zoe’s eyes welled up. Being a single mum hadn’t been part of the plan.
“What do I do now, Mum?”
Margaret bit back an “*I told you so*”—a mother’s heart isn’t made of stone.
“You have the baby, obviously. It’s not going anywhere. When’s it due?”
“July, just in time for graduation.” Zoe sighed, rubbing her belly.
…Zoe gave birth right on schedule—a girl she named Emily. And so, the three of them carried on, like three peas in a pod in their little house.
Emily grew up sturdy and bright-eyed, and Margaret doted on her. Zoe, however, kept her at arm’s length—Emily, annoyingly, looked just like Darren: same ginger curls, same big green eyes.
“Mummy’s home!” Six-year-old Emily would bolt to the door the second she spotted Zoe from the window, arms wide for a hug.
“What’d you bring me?” She’d cling to her mum’s arm, hopeful.
“Nothing,” Zoe would grumble.
“Why not? You *promised* ice cream!”
“Give it a rest! I’m knackered!” Zoe would shove Emily off and disappear into her room.
Emily would stand there crying. She’d waited all day for a cuddle, only to be brushed off. Then nursery made them draw their families—Emily sketched three figures: herself, Mum, and Nana. The other kids laughed. “*No-dad Emily!*” they’d chant.
Margaret would scoop her up, but the tantrum would already be in full swing.
“Where’s my daddy? Why’s Mummy mean?!” Emily would wail.
Margaret would hold her tight.
“Not everyone’s got a dad, love. Who needs him? More cake for us. Come on—let’s get ice cream.”
At the magic word, Emily’s tears would slow.
“And Mummy too?”
“And Mummy too.”
Mother’s Day was always a grand affair in Margaret’s house—after all, it was a household of women. The table groaned with treats, Zoe’s friends would pop round, and gifts were exchanged. But this year, Zoe didn’t bring pals—she brought a man. No warning.
A well-dressed bloke, far older than Zoe, stood in their doorway.
“Mum, meet Alexander. My boss. He’s being promoted—relocating soon. We’re getting married.”
“*What?*” Margaret froze.
“Ooh! Is this my dad?” Emily piped up from the hallway, forgetting to say hello.
“No, girlie, I’m not,” Alexander smirked. “Look what I brought you.” He held out a doll.
Emily turned away. Something about him felt off.
The evening dragged. Alexander made no effort to charm anyone, while Zoe fawned over him and snapped at Emily.
“Sit up straight! What will Uncle Alex think? Stop fidgeting!”
Margaret stayed quiet, uneasy. Alexander reveled in his “generosity,” treating them like charity cases. Emily barely ate, watching her mum nervously.
“Our division’s top-performing. So, congrats—you’re looking at a future CEO. Two-hour flight away. Zoe’s coming. Got a posh house waiting—two floors, garden.”
“Can I come? Are the schools nice?” Emily asked.
Alexander shot Zoe a look. She changed the subject.
“Mum, how’s work? Maybe retire—you deserve a rest.”
“Retire? Pension’s years off—how’d we live?”
“Alex and I will support you. You’ll want for nothing.”
“Why?” Margaret eyed her.
“Emily, go play with your new doll,” Alexander ordered.
Emily glanced at Margaret, who nodded. She left—doll abandoned by the door.
“Mum, here’s the thing,” Zoe started. “We can’t take Emily right away. Once we’re settled, we’ll fetch her.”
“Why wait? You’ve got room!”
“It’s *inconvenient* with a child,” Alexander cut in. “We’ll pay you to look after her.”
“Her name’s Emily,” Margaret said coldly. “So that’s your game—pay me to ditch your kid?”
“Mum, it’s *temporary*,” Zoe simpered. “A new husband doesn’t need baggage.”
“Temporary’s permanent in my book. Off you go, then. Emily stays with me.”
Alexander stormed out. Zoe lingered, trying to smooth things over.
“Mum, don’t you want me happy? A decent man, finally—why can’t you be pleased? Emily’ll be fine—I’ll fetch her in six months.”
“Do what you like,” Margaret sighed. “But I won’t let you hurt that girl. I’ll tell her you’re on a work trip. Poor mite—no dad, now her mum’s ditching her for some bloke.”
“I’m *not* ditching her!”
“Aren’t you?”
Zoe left without another word.
A week later, she packed her bags. Emily hovered, dispensing advice.
“Take your warm jumper, Mummy. And your gloves—what if it snows?”
Zoe laughed.
“It’s the south, silly. No need for gloves.”
Margaret watched, heart heavy, as Emily clung to her mother, chattering.
“Take Teddy. He’s my favourite—I’m giving him to you.”
Zoe tossed the bear into the suitcase to shut her up. Emily tucked him in with a jumper.
“Don’t be sad, Teddy. Mummy’s just upset ’cause she doesn’t *want* to leave. Look after her, okay?”
Margaret fled, muffling sobs in a tea towel. Rage at Zoe, pity for Emily—it choked her.
“Taxi’s here!” Zoe chirped. “No need to see me off.”
“Mummy!” Emily lunged, wrapping around her legs. “Don’t go!”
“Get *off*—I’ll miss my flight! Mum, grab her!”
Margaret scooped up the sobbing girl as Zoe vanished.
Six months passed. Then five years. Zoe never came back. Money arrived occasionally, calls were rare, visits nonexistent. Margaret worked as always, stashing Zoe’s cheques for Emily’s education.
At graduation, classmates posed with their families. Just Emily and Nana stood apart. The sting of absence burned sharper than ever.
“Proud of you, love,” Margaret beamed. “Shame your mum’s missing this. Sorry I raised her so selfish.”
“Don’t be silly,” Emily hugged her. “*You’re* my family. I’d never leave you. I’ve known for ages—she abandoned me. I’ve forgivenYears later, when Emily tucked her own child into bed, she made sure to promise—as she kissed her goodnight—that some promises, unlike her mother’s, were never meant to be broken.
