“What the hell are you doing on my laptop?”—Alex loomed over Emily. She’d never seen him like this before.
Emily had come home from school and the moment she stepped into the hallway, she caught the sour stench of booze. Loud snoring rumbled from the living room. No surprise; her father was drunk again. She headed straight for the kitchen.
Her mother stood at the sink, peeling potatoes. Hearing footsteps, she turned. Emily’s sharp eyes instantly caught the red, swollen mark on her cheek.
“Mum, let’s just leave him. How much longer can we put up with this? He could kill you,” Emily spat, anger simmering.
“Leave? Go where? Who’d want us? We can’t afford rent. Don’t worry, he won’t kill me. He’s a coward—only brave when it’s just me and his fists.”
The next morning, strange noises woke Emily. She crept into the kitchen. Her father stood by the stove, tipping his head back as he gulped water straight from the kettle’s spout. Mesmerised, she watched his Adam’s apple jerk up and down, hearing the liquid slosh down his throat. *Let him choke. Please, just choke.* The thought burned with hatred.
But he didn’t. He set the kettle down, sighed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and shuffled past her to the bathroom without a word.
Emily shuddered at the thought of her mum refilling that kettle—unwashed, still carrying the taste of him. She grabbed it and scrubbed it raw, vowing never to pour water without cleaning it first.
Over Christmas break, Emily’s class went on a three-day trip to Edinburgh. When she returned, her mother was in hospital.
“Was it him?” Emily demanded, staring at the bandages.
“No, love. Just black ice—I slipped.”
But Emily knew she was lying.
Years of blows led to high blood pressure; six months later, her mother had a stroke and died. At the funeral, her father wept drunken tears—one moment mourning his precious “Liz,” the next cursing her with his last breath. He swore Emily was just like her, warning that if she ever tried to leave him, he’d kill her too.
Emily counted the days until school ended. She skipped graduation, quietly collected her diploma from the office the next morning, and while her father was at work, packed her things and fled.
She’d been skimming from the grocery money for months, even nicking notes from his pockets while he slept. It wasn’t much, but enough to survive. She’d planned this for years: work first, study later.
She wasn’t afraid he’d look for her. The neighbours and local constable knew his habits—no one would help him track her down. She moved to Manchester, rented a shabby but cheap flat on the outskirts. A job at Burger King got her by—free meals, help with the health check.
She enrolled in college part-time. When work found out she was studying accounting, they put her on the till.
Boys tried flirting. *”They’re all sweet at first, then they start drinking or cheating. I don’t know which is worse. Don’t trust their kindness, love. I was pretty once too. Your dad didn’t drink when we met. We loved each other. Where did it all go?”* Her mother’s warnings stuck. Emily ignored them all.
She’d seen how her parents lived. On payday, her mother stocked up: pasta, tins, rice—things that lasted. Her father drank his wages, but there was always food, plain as it was. Now Emily did the same.
One evening, arms aching from heavy bags, she bumped into a guy glued to his phone. She’d hoped he’d notice and step aside—but he ploughed right into her.
“Sorry,” he muttered, finally looking up.
Emily almost snapped—*watch where you’re going*—but his grin disarmed her.
“My fault,” she said, smiling back.
He offered to carry her bags. Hesitant, she handed one over. Someone with a smile like that couldn’t be bad. They walked together. Alex insisted on seeing her home, but she didn’t let him past the lobby.
The next day, he showed up at Burger King. “Just passing by,” he claimed, but she knew better.
They started dating. Alex admitted he was divorced, with a little girl he adored. He’d left his ex the house, crashed with a mate. Said marrying her was a mistake.
“We just couldn’t talk. Days would go by in silence.”
But he doted on his daughter. That sealed it for Emily—a man who loved his kid was trustworthy. A month later, Alex suggested moving in.
“Let’s get a decent flat, closer to town. Easier together.”
She agreed, floating on hope. A proper family at last.
He paid two months’ rent upfront. The third month, he sheepishly asked her to cover it.
“Lizzie’s birthday. Bought her something nice, plus child support…”
No hesitation—she paid. Then it became routine: his daughter sick, helping his parents… Now *she* covered the rent. They were a family, weren’t they?
When she found out she was pregnant, she blurted it out, expecting joy. He just nodded.
“I thought you’d be happy.”
“Just surprised. I am, really.” He hugged her, but the moment felt hollow.
Morning sickness hit hard. Alex had to cook.
“My ex never had this. Maybe something’s wrong with you?”
The comparison stung. *What am I, then?*
“It’s normal. It’ll pass.”
When it did, her appetite exploded. She gained weight, her clothes didn’t fit. One day, Alex noticed a new dress.
“We’re skint, and you’re shopping?”
“I *need* clothes. What, another fancy gift for Lizzie?”
“She’s my daughter. I’ll buy her what she needs. You knew that.” His voice hardened. “She comes first.”
“And our baby? Where does that leave *us*?”
“I didn’t think you’d be like this. We had an understanding.”
“*You* had one. I agreed because I loved you. If Lizzie’s all that matters, there won’t *be* a baby!”
The slap came out of nowhere. Her ears rang, cheek burning.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean—Emily, talk to me.” He knelt, pleading.
She barely heard him. *He hit me. Sober. Dad was drunk…*
He sobbed into her lap. She pitied him, ran a hand through his hair. He looked up, hopeful. She forced a smile, ignoring the throbbing in her cheek.
“Promise it won’t happen again?”
He kissed her before she could finish. “Never. I love you.”
So she forgave him. *My fault. I shouldn’t have threatened the baby.* But he hadn’t meant it either, had he?
For weeks, he was gentle. She convinced herself he’d changed. Not like her father. Dad never apologised.
Then, nearing maternity leave, she opened his laptop—looking for a cheap pram. Prices dismayed her. Second-hand would do. Too soon, maybe, but no use regretting it now.
As she went to close it, a folder caught her eye. A photo filled the screen—a young woman, laughing, tossing autumn leaves. The next shot showed her smiling at the camera.
Who was this? His ex? No—she’d be thirty. This girl was barely twenty. Recent, too. Maybe just a random download?
*”He’s cheating. You don’t know him. Sure he visits Lizzie weekends? Where are her photos?”* The baby kicked, sensing her distress.
“Shh, little one. Mummy’s being silly. Daddy’ll explain.”
Keys jangled in the lock. She snapped the laptop shut, darted to the sofa. Alex walked in.
“Alright?” he asked, sensing tension.
“Bad dream. You’re late?”
Her gaze flicked to the laptop—not fully closed, the screen still glowing.
Alex kept talking. She prayed he wouldn’t notice.
“I waited for dinner. Kitchen?”
Too late. His eyes locked onto it.
“You went through my laptop?”
His voice turned glacial. She’d never seen that look.
“Yours is faster. I was looking at prams—”
He lifted the screen.
“Prams?” His glare pinned her.
“I clicked the wrong folder. I wasn’t snooping—”
*”Oh, sure. Randomly opened every photo.”*
“Who’s that?” She nodded at the screen.
He slammed it shut.
“Mate’s wife. Sent the wrong files.”
“To your email? Why save them?”
“Are you deaf? I *told* you—”
“You’re lying!”
His face twisted. “Fine. There’s someone else. *Your* fault. You were slim, sweet. Now look at you—a bloated cow. Think I want this?”
He struck. HerShe left that night, baby in her arms, realizing too late that love shouldn’t hurt.
