“Lydia Thompson, how could you let this happen?” shouted the neighbour, Margaret Jones, waving her hands in the narrow hallway of their shared flat. “You’re her mother! How can you turn a blind eye to what’s happening to your daughter?”
“Keep your voice down!” Lydia hissed, glancing around. “You’ll wake the whole building with your shouting!”
“I don’t care! Everyone should know what kind of mother you are! Emily hasn’t left her room in three months, barely eats, and you act like nothing’s wrong!”
Lydia pressed her lips together and slammed her bedroom door shut. Margaret lingered in the hallway a moment longer before stomping off with an indignant huff.
The room was stifling and silent. Emily lay on the bed, turned toward the wall, feigning sleep. Her mother pushed the window open wide, letting the crisp autumn air rush in, stirring the curtains.
“Emily, time to get up. Lunch is ready,” Lydia murmured.
No movement. Lydia sat on the edge of the bed.
“I know you’re awake. Let’s talk, love.”
“What’s there to talk about?” Emily replied thickly, still facing the wall. “It’s done.”
“It’s done, but it’s not over. Life goes on. You need to decide what to do.”
Emily whipped around. Her face was pale, eyes swollen from tears.
“Decide *what*, Mum? What? He’s marrying that *Sophie* from uni next week! And I just sat there like an idiot, waiting for him to graduate!”
“Em, darling, why torture yourself like this? If it wasn’t meant to be, it wasn’t meant to be. You’ll find someone else, someone better.”
“Someone *else*?” Emily sat up, her gaze hollow. “Mum, you don’t understand. I’m—”
She faltered and turned away again.
“What, love? Tell me.”
“Nothing. It just hurts.”
Lydia sighed and stood. “Fine, rest for now. But you *will* eat dinner tonight. You’re wasting away.”
She left to cook. Emily stayed motionless, staring at the ceiling. Something ached low in her stomach. She pressed a hand there, tracing the curve beneath her thin nightdress.
“What do we do now?” she whispered.
The clatter of pots and the sizzle of frying onions drifted from the kitchen. The smell made her queasy, as it had for weeks.
That evening, Aunt Clara—her mother’s younger sister—arrived. She worked as a nurse and was the only one in the family with medical knowledge.
“So, Lyd, how’s our patient?” she asked, shrugging off her coat.
“Still in bed, won’t eat. She’s running me ragged,” Lydia complained.
“Have you taken her to a doctor?”
“How? She won’t even stand.”
Aunt Clara marched into Emily’s room.
“Alright, niece. How are we feeling?”
“Fine,” Emily muttered.
“Look at me.” Clara took her wrist, checking her pulse. “When did you last eat properly?”
“Don’t remember.”
“And your last period?”
Emily stiffened. “Dunno.”
“Think.”
“…Two months ago?”
Clara’s brow furrowed. “Up. To the bathroom.”
“Why?”
“Just come.”
Emily rose unsteadily. The room spun.
“Whoa—” She grabbed the wall.
“What’s wrong?”
“Dizzy.”
Clara guided her to the bathroom and shut the door.
“Strip.”
“Aunt Clara, why?”
“Do as I say.”
Emily undressed. Clara examined her, pressing gently on her abdomen.
“Right. Dress.”
Back in the bedroom, Clara sat stiffly on a chair.
“Emily, be honest. Did you sleep with that boy?”
Emily flushed scarlet.
“What do you mean?”
“You know *exactly* what I mean. Were you intimate?”
Emily nodded.
“Did you use protection?”
“He said he was careful… that he knew what he was doing.”
“I see. Emily, you’re pregnant.”
The words hung like a verdict. Emily sat frozen.
“What?”
“Pregnant. At least three months along.”
Emily buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Clara pulled her close.
“Oh, love, don’t cry like that.”
“What do I *do*?” Emily gasped. “He’s marrying *her*! And I’m—I’m—”
“First, we confirm it properly. Tomorrow, we’ll see a doctor.”
“Mum can’t know.”
“Not yet.”
Clara left, and Emily sat awake all night, thoughts scrambling—memories of Daniel, their stolen moments, his promises to marry her after graduation.
At the hospital the next day, the doctor confirmed it: fourteen weeks.
“What now?” Clara asked outside.
“I don’t know,” Emily whispered.
“Talk to him. He might change his mind.”
“He *won’t*.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw them together. The way he looks at her… it’s real.”
“Then you decide. Keep it and raise it alone, or—”
“Or what?”
“You know.”
Emily shuddered. “It’s a sin.”
“Sin or not, you’ve one life. Think—can you do this alone?”
On the bus home, Emily watched the grey autumn sky. Inside her, life grew—and she had no idea what to do.
At home, Lydia noticed her distress.
“What’s wrong?”
“She’s anaemic,” Clara lied. “Needs treatment.”
“I knew it. Pale as a ghost.”
Emily collapsed onto her bed. Lydia and Clara murmured in the kitchen.
“Clara, what’s *really* wrong?”
“What I said. Anaemia.”
“You’re lying.”
“Why would I? Just feed her better.”
Lydia nodded, uneasy.
Later, Emily’s best friend, Lucy, visited.
“You’ve been hiding for months. What’s going on?”
Emily hesitated.
“If someone… if they were pregnant, and the bloke left them… what would they do?”
Lucy’s eyes widened.
“Tell the parents. Or him.”
“Even if he’s marrying someone else?”
“Especially then. He should know.”
Emily nodded, silent.
The next day, she went to Daniel’s university. He frowned when he saw her.
“Emily? What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
In the park, she blurted it out.
“Daniel, I’m pregnant.”
He paled.
“That’s impossible. I was careful—”
“Not careful enough.”
He paced.
“You’re *sure*?”
“Would I lie?”
“What do you want from me?”
“Just… know. Maybe don’t marry Sophie?”
He turned sharply.
“Em, I *love* her. Properly.”
“And me?”
“I loved you, but… not like this.”
She stood, tears rising.
“Then there’s nothing to say.”
“Wait!”
But she walked away.
That night, Clara returned.
“Well?”
“He’s marrying her.”
“Bastard. And the baby?”
“Told me to get rid of it.”
Clara’s jaw tightened. “Then you decide. Raising it alone won’t be easy.”
Emily imagined telling her mother—the scandal, the gossip.
“Aunt Clara… if I… ended it… is it dangerous?”
“With a proper doctor, not terribly.”
“Do you know one?”
“It’ll cost eight hundred quid.”
Emily shuddered. She had that much—saved for a wedding with Daniel. Ironic.
The next morning, she made her choice.
“I’ll do it.”
Clara nodded. “I’ll arrange it. Tell your mum it’s appendicitis.”
The operation was quick. Afterwards, Emily lay still, quietly mourning the life she’d erased.
A week later, she went home. Lydia fussed over her.
By the time Daniel married Sophie, Emily could listen stone-faced.
“Gorgeous couple,” Lucy gushed. “He looked *so* happy.”
“Good,” Emily said.
And she meant it. She didn’t regret Daniel.
But she regretted never telling her mother. Never taking the chance.
Months passed. She dated again, met Stephen—a good man who loved her. They married, had children.
But one secret remained.
Not even Stephen knew. Not her children. Not Lucy.
Only sometimes, passing a schoolyard, seeing a child who resembled Daniel, her heart clenched.
*What if that were mine?*
But she never spoke it aloud.
Some secrets are too heavy to share.
