“You decided to have a baby without a husband? Aren’t you ashamed, Mum?” Lisa asked with disapproval.
Right after her graduation party, Lisa submitted her university applications. She had no doubt she’d get in—her A-level results were strong, even better than last year’s entry requirements.
That summer was scorching. Her friend suggested they stay with her aunt in Brighton. The idea of two or three weeks by the sea, free from parental supervision, living an exciting adult life, was tempting. But with just a day left before the trip, Lisa grew restless. Not because it was her first time traveling alone, but because she’d be away from Ian.
Ingrid, Lisa’s mum, had just turned thirty-seven. She’d split from her husband when Lisa was three. Lisa barely remembered her father—there wasn’t much to remember anyway. Her parents had married young, barely knowing each other, and the strain of sleepless nights, a crying baby, constant worries over money, and endless bickering had driven them apart.
As Lisa grew up, Ingrid had tried to rebuild her love life, but it never worked out. Either the men weren’t interested in raising another man’s child, or Lisa just didn’t like them.
Then, two years ago, Ian came into their lives. He visited often, though he never stayed the night—at least, Lisa never noticed. He was funny, kind, and brought her gifts, even once surprising her with a huge bouquet of red roses on her birthday.
And Lisa fell in love.
Ian was two years younger than Ingrid—not a big gap, but Lisa convinced herself it mattered. She decided she suited him better than her mum did. Every glance, every laugh, she took as proof he fancied her. After all, she was barely eighteen, half her mum’s age. If he had to choose, surely he’d pick her. That’s how she saw it. And so, she seethed with jealousy whenever he paid attention to Ingrid.
While she was off sunbathing and swimming, anything could happen. What if he proposed? Then she’d lose him for good.
The night before her trip, Ingrid was bustling in the kitchen, while Lisa agonised over confessing her feelings to Ian.
“Lise, could you nip to the shop? I forgot the cheese, and we’re nearly out of mayo,” Ingrid asked, poking her head out.
“Mum, I still haven’t finished packing,” Lisa muttered.
Ingrid sighed and went herself.
Minutes later, the doorbell rang. Ian! Lisa’s heart jumped. This was her chance—just the two of them.
She played the perfect host, chatting about nothing, even switching on the telly and sitting close. His shoulder brushed hers, and she couldn’t resist—she grabbed his arm, pressing closer. His cheek was so near her lips, his cologne intoxicating.
Boldness took over. She kissed his cheek.
He didn’t recoil, just leaned back slightly, stood up, and looked at her with confusion.
Shame burned through her. She’d imagined it all—to him, she was just Ingrid’s kid.
The key turned in the lock. Before Ian could say anything, Ingrid rushed in, breathless.
“Ian! You’re here already? I completely forgot the cheese—and then remembered the mayo at the till. With Lisa leaving, my head’s all over the place. Let me finish dinner.”
The way they looked at each other—soft, adoring—pierced Lisa’s heart. He never looked at her like that. She bolted to her room.
“What’s wrong with her?” Ingrid asked, baffled.
“Hungry, I reckon. What’s for dinner?” Ian smoothly deflected.
At the table, Lisa avoided his eyes, forcing laughter when he joked, pretending nothing happened. But the weight of that moment lingered.
Later, when Ingrid cleared the dishes, Ian asked, “So, what’s your news?”
“Patience,” she teased, fluttering her lashes.
Lisa hated when her mum acted like a lovesick teenager.
“Lisa’s off tomorrow—all grown up. I’m a mess about it,” Ingrid mused.
“I’m not going alone! And we’re staying with adults,” Lisa snapped.
“Lisa’s sensible—nothing bad’ll happen,” Ian reassured, shooting her a look that made her pulse skip. “Besides, what’s there to do here all summer?”
“Right. Three whole weeks without me in the way of your dates,” Lisa shot back.
“Lisa! What’s got into you?” Ingrid frowned.
“Nothing,” Lisa hissed, storming off.
Later, Ingrid knocked. “Talk to me. You’ve never been like this.”
Lisa stayed curled up, facing the wall.
“All packed?” Ingrid tried.
*Obviously. The massive duffel by the window isn’t a clue?* Lisa fumed silently.
“Why are you angry?” Ingrid pressed.
“You act ridiculous around him. Giggling, flirting—it’s embarrassing.”
“I’m not acting. Love makes you silly. You’ll understand one day.” Ingrid touched her shoulder. Lisa shrugged her off.
“You came to tell me *that*?”
“Turn around. I can’t talk to your back.”
Lisa flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling.
“I want you to hear it first. I love you more than anything.” Ingrid paused. “I’m having a baby.”
Lisa froze. “A baby? Ian’s?” Her voice cracked. “So you’re getting married?”
“No. He’s married. But it doesn’t matter.”
“*Married*? Mum, listen to yourself! You’re having a baby alone? Aren’t you ashamed?”
“Why should I be? I’m a grown woman—”
“Exactly! Would you be this calm if *I* told you I was pregnant? Why isn’t he leaving his wife?”
“It’s complicated. Maybe later, after—”
“You haven’t told him?” Lisa sat bolt upright.
Their eyes locked. Ingrid looked away first.
“I didn’t want to pressure him.”
“Mum, you’ll be on maternity leave, I’ll be at uni—how will we live? When this kid finishes school, *you’ll* be retired. Alone again? Get rid of it. Don’t humiliate yourself.”
“Don’t say that. You’ll marry, have your own life—”
“You’ll have *grandkids*!” Lisa’s voice broke. “Just end it. He’ll never know. If he hasn’t left her yet, he won’t. You *know* that. It’s disgusting—a woman your age getting knocked up!”
“I never thought you’d—”
“What, *celebrate*? Your grandkid and son being the same age? That’s *sick*!”
“I heard you.” Ingrid left quietly.
Lisa knew she’d gone too far. Women had babies at forty all the time. But this wasn’t just anyone—it was her mum. And Ian. She knew how babies were made, but imagining *them* together? It made her skin crawl.
The next morning, they barely spoke. A friend’s dad drove Lisa to the station. At the door, backpack in hand, she almost begged Ingrid to reconsider—but stayed silent.
“Bye,” she mumbled, stepping out.
“Call me!” Ingrid called after her.
The car ride was a blur. Her friends’ chatter drowned out her guilt. Their mums weren’t having surprise babies. Why did parents get to dictate their kids’ lives, but not the other way around? If *she* were pregnant, Ingrid wouldn’t be thrilled either. So Lisa didn’t text.
She swam, tanned, laughed. But by the second week, the sea lost its charm. Strangely, she missed Ingrid. Ian barely crossed her mind.
Early August, tanned and glowing, Lisa returned. The flat was silent. Ingrid sat on the sofa, staring blankly.
“Mum? I’m back,” Lisa called.
No hug, no welcome. Just hollow eyes.
“Mum, what’s wrong?”
Black dress. Pale face. Tearless, red-rimmed eyes.
“Ian’s dead. Buried yesterday. I couldn’t even say goodbye.”
Lisa’s stomach dropped.
“Car crash. He’s just… gone. I’m gone.”
“I’m here, Mum. I’m back.”
“Where’s his grave?” Lisa whispered.
“Dunno. Probably near his parents’.”
“Let’s go tomorrow.”
Ingrid’s eyes flickered. “I’ll tell him… He never knew. Stupid me. Didn’t want him to think I was trapping him.”
“You never told him?”
Ingrid shook her head. For a second, Lisa was glad—then hated herself.
“I loved him. But this baby… What’s the point without him?”
“Don’t say that. It’s *his* baby. We’ll manage—I’ll help.” Lisa knelt, resting her head onThey named the baby Theodore, and as he grew, his smile carried the same warmth as Ian’s, weaving his memory into the quiet strength of their little family.
