**Coming of Age**
Emily trudged home, exhausted and drained. In one hand, she clutched her handbag, in the other—a bag of groceries she’d picked up on the way. Her legs felt like jelly. She wanted to just drop to the ground and stay there. But Oliver was waiting for her at home. Her son. The only reason she kept going. If it wasn’t for him, she’d have given up on life long ago.
Some people are born with a silver spoon in their mouth—everything falls into place effortlessly. Others, like Emily, seem destined for hardship. Back in Year 11, at a friend’s birthday party, she met a boy two years older. He seemed grown-up, confident, like rules didn’t apply to him. She fell hard, lost her head.
Emily wasn’t strikingly beautiful, but she had that youthful charm—kind grey eyes, straight chestnut hair, a soft figure with just the right curves.
That January, her mum was hospitalised with pneumonia. The flat was suddenly hers and her boyfriend’s for the taking. And that’s when it happened—the thing that happens to naive seventeen-year-old girls. She gave in to his sweet-talking, his promises, the words of love that come so easily when you’re young.
When she realised she was pregnant, she ran straight to him.
*”How’s this my problem? What kind of father would I be? Look at me. Find some other fool…”*
And just like that, he was gone.
Who could she turn to? Who could she tell? Time passed, and Emily couldn’t bring herself to confess to her mum.
Spring came, time to pull out lighter clothes. Standing in front of the mirror, Emily struggled to button her jeans over her growing waist. Her top strained at the bust.
*”You’ve put on weight,”* her mum said from behind. Emily flinched. *”Turn around—”* Her mum gasped, pressing a hand to her own throat.
*”Who’s the father? How far along? Why didn’t you say anything?!”*
There was shouting, humiliation, her mum chasing her through the flat with a tea towel. Then, finally, they sat on the sofa, clinging to each other, crying. It was too late for an abortion.
Emily finished her GCSEs but didn’t go to uni. In late September, she gave birth to a sweet little boy, his face already hinting at the reckless, careless man who’d left them behind.
When her son was older, her mum pulled strings to get her a job at the local housing office. Emily hated it—endless complaints from residents, threats, her head spinning. For extra cash, she cleaned offices at night, scrubbing floors scuffed by countless shoes. Her son needed clothes, nursery fees.
Oliver grew up quiet, never causing trouble. Emily denied herself everything, but he never lacked love, care, or toys.
When he started school, her mum fell seriously ill. Eight months later, she was gone. Emily took on another cleaning job—this time at a nearby office. Just mopping wasn’t enough—windows, post-renovation mess. She dragged herself home, barely standing.
Then came the teenage years. Oliver turned prickly, withdrawn. He brushed off her questions, snapped at her. She knew she had to keep an eye on him—it wouldn’t take much to fall in with the wrong crowd. But by the time she got home, she only had energy to throw together a meal and ask how school was.
Lately, she’d noticed scratches on his face, bruises on his arms. *”Fell in PE,”* he’d mutter.
Then she saw him with a girl. Not just any girl—dressed in an oversized black hoodie, baggy trousers, bright pink hair, a nose ring. Maybe she was nice, maybe it was just a phase. But not all girls dressed like that.
She tried talking to him, but he just snapped at her and locked himself in his room. What could she do? She figured first love was like an illness—you just had to wait it out. No amount of shouting would fix it. But her heart ached. He was home alone all day. She prayed he wouldn’t repeat her mistakes—or worse.
One evening, as she stumbled home, her tired eyes searched the flat’s windows through the spring leaves. The dark panes told her—Oliver wasn’t there.
Trudging up the stairs, head low, she barely noticed the milk spilling from her split bag until a neighbour, James, appeared.
*”Everything alright?”*
*”No. My son’s friend just told me—”* Her voice cracked. *”Said he’s gone up to the roof of the tower block. Some stupid dare, jumping to the next building. They’re filming it.”*
James sprang into action. *”Go home. I’ll handle this.”*
She cleaned the spilt milk numbly, ignoring a nosy neighbour’s comment, then waited by the window, staring at the distant rooftops.
Finally, the doorbell rang. Oliver stood there, hood up, head down. James beside him.
*”He’s safe,”* James said. *”Kid, think about your mum next time. Love’s one thing, but this?”*
She pulled Oliver into a crushing hug.
*”Starts tomorrow, five o’clock. Gym clothes,”* James told him.
*”Where? Why?”* Emily asked, confused.
*”He’s got energy—needs direction. I’ll teach him to handle himself, so he doesn’t fall for stupid dares.”*
Later, she whispered to a small paper icon her mum had stuck to the fridge: *”Thank you.”*
Oliver started training with James. He began meeting her after work, carrying bags, talking to her again. Peace returned.
*”Mum, James said you’re pretty. Just dress nicer,”* Oliver said one day.
*”Ashamed of me?”* she bristled.
*”No. Just… I think he likes you.”*
So she listened. A new dress, a bit of mascara.
*”You look young, Mum. James said you don’t look a day over thirty.”*
She rolled her eyes but smiled.
One evening, she bumped into James on the stairs.
*”Tomorrow’s your day off, yeah?”* he asked. *”Fancy a film? All three of us?”*
At home, she noticed fresh scratches on Oliver’s arms.
*”Fighting?”*
*”Nah. James’s been teaching me. I can handle myself now.”*
Trouble doesn’t last forever. One day, things settle. Peace comes home.
And love? Love comes to those who wait.
