“Take the kid if you want, I don’t care. I can’t stand looking at him. Just give me money in return,” said Victoria.
Jocelyn had an elongated face with slightly protruding brown eyes, large teeth, and a heavy jaw. But her hair was thick, dark, and curled in large waves. If she pinned it up at the back, it made a lavish hairstyle—but then her facial flaws became more obvious. So Jocelyn always wore it down.
Her figure wasn’t much better, as if shaped by an unskilled sculptor. At least clothes could hide that—but a face…
Sometimes, a man on the street would call after her:
“Hey, love, fancy a chat?”
But when she turned around, he’d mumble an apology—something about mistaking her for someone else—and hurry off.
“Why waste such hair on her?” whispered envious classmates.
Jocelyn would’ve gladly traded it for something thin and dull if it meant her face could be even slightly prettier.
She had no friends. But there was one boy she fancied. He sat in the next row and sometimes asked to copy her homework or for answers during tests. Jocelyn was top of the class.
One day, he invited her to the cinema. She was over the moon. After the film, they walked home, chatting. The boy kept glancing over his shoulder.
“Who are you looking for? Worried someone will see you with me?” Jocelyn asked bluntly.
He flushed and stammered.
At her door, he awkwardly kissed her—just as laughter erupted from around the corner. His mates had been watching. A bet—whether he’d kiss the ugly girl.
“What’d they promise you?” Jocelyn shouted in his face before running inside.
She never looked at him again and stopped letting him copy her work.
“Don’t fret, you’ll find a man. I did, and so will you,” her equally plain mother reassured her.
Jocelyn left school with top marks and studied economics at university, graduating with first-class honours. But she envied prettier classmates who partied, married, even had children while still studying.
After graduation, her father—a well-connected solicitor—landed her a job at a prestigious firm.
Her colleagues rushed home to husbands and sickly children; Jocelyn stayed late, finishing their work. She had nowhere to hurry to. They loved her reliability; management valued her. She never missed a deadline.
Grateful, her colleagues tried setting her up with their husbands’ friends—usually divorced blokes who’d left their homes to ex-wives. Tired of renting rooms and fleeting flings, they’d latch onto stability. Jocelyn would do. But she wanted love, not pity. At night, she wept, cursing fate for making her so plain.
Then her father died. Two years later, her mother followed. Late marriage, only child. Jocelyn was utterly alone. Time passed, her age creeping toward the threshold where a healthy pregnancy grew unlikely.
A colleague suggested a holiday abroad.
“Our CEO had the same problem,” she confided. “Strong, handsome—but infertile. His wife wanted kids but wouldn’t divorce. Big house, flash cars, status… Doctors hinted they should take a beach holiday.”
They went to Spain. She slept with a gorgeous waiter after checking his blood type—just in case. See where I’m going?
“How d’you know this?” Jocelyn whispered.
“Doesn’t matter. Point is, everyone’s happy. The CEO’s got an heir now. On holiday, every man’s single—married or not. Sun, sea, maybe a fling. Just pick a handsome one—improve the breed.”
“Like choosing a pedigree pup?” Jocelyn scoffed.
“Exactly. Or try here—but why risk a scorned wife? There, everyone’s passing through.”
Sceptical but desperate, Jocelyn booked a trip. One evening, strolling the promenade, she met a striking man—tall, broad-shouldered. She feigned a twisted ankle. He, ever the gentleman, helped her to a café.
She didn’t mince words: she told him what she wanted. He didn’t laugh or flee—just studied her face and understood.
She returned home sun-kissed, refreshed—not yet knowing she was pregnant. Two weeks later, she knew. Nine months after that, a beautiful girl arrived.
The midwife, no stranger to women like Jocelyn, judged nothing. No one visited the plain new mother, no joyous notes, no grateful shouts under her window.
At discharge, the doctor gifted formula, nappies, and her personal number. “Call if needed.” They became friends. The baby? Jocelyn named her Victoria.
She spoiled the girl rotten, pouring all her unused love into her. Victoria grew up stunning, spoiled, and selfish—her father’s spitting image, save for Jocelyn’s hair.
Boys flocked to her. Schoolwork? Useless. After A-levels, she refused uni—too busy chasing a leather-clad rocker. Nights roared away on his motorbike. Jocelyn begged, warned, reasoned. Victoria only dreamed of marrying him. At least she finished school.
Exhausted by fights, Jocelyn came home one evening to a note: *Don’t look for me. Gone to London with him. He proposed.*
The police? Pointless. Eighteen—gone willingly. Jocelyn wept, then buried herself in work.
Over a year later, the midwife friend called—rare these days. Jocelyn tensed.
No small talk: a young mother had abandoned her baby.
“Name, address… It’s her. Your Victoria.”
“Christ,” Jocelyn choked out.
“Don’t sob—come quick. She might bolt. I’ve stalled the paperwork. Convince her to take the boy properly. If she refuses, adoption gets messy. You’ll take him? Knew it. She might yet come round. Reckon the father left. Baby’s healthy—minor issues, fixable.”
Jocelyn raced to the hospital. Victoria looked worse than a stray cat. She didn’t greet her mother but listened coldly to the plea to reclaim her son.
“Take him, then. Just give me money. I know you’ve got it.”
Jocelyn handed over nearly all her savings. She met them at discharge with flowers, hoping Victoria would soften. But the girl ignored the baby—no breastfeeding, no naming him. Three days later, she vanished.
Jocelyn named the boy George, after his grandfather. She took leave, hired a nanny—her salary allowed it now. The director, valuing her, let her work remotely. Money mattered—children grew fast, needed so much.
She adored George but didn’t spoil him, fearing another Victoria. He was calm, bright, called her *Mum*. He caught every nursery bug but had the best paediatricians, thanks to her friend.
When older, she explained she was his gran—his mum was “away, but coming soon.”
He frowned. “Why doesn’t she call?”
So Jocelyn wrote letters *from* her. At first, he believed. Then grew tired of empty promises. No envelopes—where would they come from?
Victoria never came. George stopped waiting. Jocelyn stopped writing. Life was good. Only one fear gnawed at her—that Victoria would return, claim him, take him away. Jocelyn couldn’t imagine life without her sunshine.
Then a letter arrived—from America. Hands shaking, she opened it.
Victoria had married an older man. A big house. Two stepdaughters. *He wants a son.* Jocelyn’s heart lurched. Here it was—her nightmare.
She drank water, steadied herself, read on. Victoria couldn’t conceive. Her husband, learning of her son in England, wanted him brought over. The *best schools*… Not a word about his life. *I’m coming soon.*
Jocelyn couldn’t breathe. George found her on the sofa, the letter beside her.
“Mum wrote again?” He smirked.
“It’s real. From America. She’s taking you.” Jocelyn wept.
“Should I call an ambulance? Your pills?” He panicked. “Gran, I’m not going. How could I leave you? She never wanted me—I don’t want her.”
It didn’t ease her dread. Two weeks later, another letter.
Victoria was leaving her husband. Divorce would take time—she’d get a payout, but needed money now.
Jocelyn knew. Sell the big London flat, buy smaller, send the rest. *Her share.* Another bargain: money for the boy.
Without hesitation, Jocelyn sold up. Two months later, they moved to a cramped new-build on the city’s edge. From the window, forests blurred into distant motorway lights.
George started a new school. Jocelyn demanded Victoria renounce all claims—*then* she’d send the money. Her friend’s advice—no more blackmail.
Still, fear clung. Only when George turned eighteen would she relax. For years, she flinched at the post, at phone rings.
But Victoria never wrote againJocelyn lived out her days watching George grow into a kind, steady man, and though her heart sometimes ached for the daughter who had vanished, she found peace in the love she had built with her grandson.
