**Never Told a Soul**
*Diary Entry*
Mrs. Harrison from next door was practically shouting in the hallway of our shared flat, her voice sharp with accusation. “Lillian, how could you let this happen? You’re her mother! How can you just stand by while your own daughter wastes away?”
“Keep your voice down!” I hissed, glancing around, terrified the whole building would hear. “You’ll wake everyone!”
“I don’t care if the whole street hears! Poor Emily hasn’t left her room in months, barely eats, and you pretend nothing’s wrong!”
I pressed my lips together and slammed the door behind me. Mrs. Harrison huffed loudly before stomping back to her own flat.
The room was stifling, thick with silence. Emily lay on her bed, curled toward the wall, pretending to sleep. I pushed open the window, letting in the crisp autumn air, the curtains fluttering weakly.
“Emily, love. Time for lunch,” I murmured.
She didn’t move. I sat on the edge of her bed. “I know you’re awake. Let’s talk, hm?”
“What’s there to say?” Her voice was hollow. “It’s already over.”
“It’s not the end of the world. We’ll figure something out.”
She turned abruptly, her face pale, eyes red-rimmed. “Figure what out, Mum? He’s marrying her next week! That Sarah from uni! And I was stupid enough to wait for him!”
“Darling, you’re tormenting yourself over nothing. If it wasn’t meant to be, it wasn’t. There’ll be others.”
“Others?” She sat up, her gaze empty. “Mum, you don’t understand. I—” She broke off and turned away.
“What? Tell me.”
“It’s nothing. It just hurts.”
I sighed and stood. “Rest for now. But you *will* eat dinner tonight. You’re wasting away.”
I left to cook, the clatter of pans filling the kitchen. The smell of onions and potatoes made my stomach turn, as it had for weeks now.
In the evening, Aunt Claire—Mum’s younger sister, a nurse—stopped by. “How’s our patient?” she asked, shaking out her raincoat.
“Still in bed, won’t eat. She’s killing me with worry,” Mum admitted.
“Have you taken her to a doctor?”
“And how? She won’t even get up.”
Aunt Claire marched into my room. “Hello, love. How are you holding up?”
“Fine,” I mumbled.
“Fine, my foot. Look at me.”
Reluctantly, I turned. She took my wrist, pressed her fingers to my pulse. “When did you last eat properly?”
“Can’t remember.”
“And your last period?”
I stiffened. “Don’t know.”
“Think.”
“…Two months ago, maybe.”
Aunt Claire’s frown deepened. “Up you get. We’re going to the loo.”
“Why?”
“Just do as you’re told.”
My legs felt like lead as I stood—then the room swayed. I staggered, catching myself on the wall.
“What’s wrong?”
“Bit dizzy.”
She guided me to the bathroom and shut the door. “Undress.”
“Aunt Claire—”
“Do it.”
After a humiliating examination, she sighed. “Get dressed.”
Back in my room, she fixed me with a heavy stare. “Emily. Be honest. Did you and that boy…?”
My face burned. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
I nodded.
“Did he use protection?”
“He said he knew what he was doing…”
“Right. Emily, you’re pregnant.”
The words hung like a guillotine. I sat frozen.
“What?”
“At least three months along.”
I covered my face and sobbed. Aunt Claire wrapped her arms around me. “Hush now. Crying won’t fix it.”
“What do I do? He’s marrying *her*! And I—”
“First, we confirm with a proper doctor. Then we’ll see.”
“Will Mum find out?”
“Not a word till we’re certain.”
She left, and I stayed staring at the ceiling till dawn, numb. Memories played behind my eyes—James’s promises, his laughter, his lies.
The doctor confirmed it the next morning. Fourteen weeks.
“Well?” Aunt Claire asked outside.
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
“You have to tell him.”
“He won’t care. He loves *her*.”
“Men panic. He might come round.”
I shook my head. “I’ve seen them together. It’s real.”
“Then the choice is yours. Raise it alone, or…”
“Or?”
“You know.”
I flinched. “That’s a sin.”
“Life’s messy. Think—can you really do this alone?”
The bus ride home was silent. Outside, autumn leaves swirled. Inside me, life grew. And I had no idea what to do.
At home, Mum frowned. “What’s wrong? Where were you?”
“Doctor’s,” Aunt Claire said smoothly. “Anaemia. She needs rest.”
Mum fretted, but I escaped to my room. Later, my best friend Lucy visited.
“Emily, what’s going on? You’ve been shut in for ages.”
“Just ill.”
“Liar. Tell me.”
I hesitated. “If… if a girl got pregnant, and the boy left her—what would she do?”
Lucy’s eyes widened. “Emily—are you—?”
“Hypothetically.”
She bit her lip. “Tell her parents. Or him.”
“And if he’s marrying someone else?”
“Make him face it.”
I nodded, silent.
The next day, I waited outside James’s university. His shock at seeing me was almost comical.
“Emily? What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
He sighed. “There’s nothing left to say.”
“Oh, there is.” I led him to a park bench, my hands trembling. “James, I’m pregnant.”
His face drained of colour. “That’s impossible.”
“It’s yours.”
He stood, pacing. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing. Just thought you should know.”
“And what—you expect me to call off the wedding?”
“I expect nothing. I just—”
“I *love* Sarah.” His voice was final.
Tears choked me. “So that’s it?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t keep it. You’re young. You’ll find someone else.”
I stood, my vision blurring. “Right. Thanks for nothing.”
“Emily—”
But I was already walking away.
At home, I cried till my throat was raw. That evening, Aunt Claire returned.
“Well?”
“He told me to get rid of it.”
“Bastard.” She exhaled. “Then it’s your choice. Think hard—doing this alone won’t be easy.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Your mum will find out eventually.”
The shame burned. Neighbours whispering, fingers pointing.
“Aunt Claire… if I did it—is it dangerous?”
“Not if it’s done properly. But it’s expensive.”
“How much?”
“£500.”
I nearly laughed. I’d saved that much—for a wedding that’d never happen.
“I’ll think about it.”
She left. That night, I traced my stomach, imagining the life inside. *My child.* But what kind of life could I give it? Poverty, stigma, no father?
By morning, I’d decided.
When Aunt Claire returned, I said, “I’ll do it.”
She nodded. “I’ll arrange it. Tell your mum it’s appendicitis.”
The hospital stay was brief. The procedure, sterile and cold. After, I stared at the ceiling, hollow.
It was over.
Mum doted on me during recovery, oblivious. Weeks passed. I returned to work, dated half-heartedly. Life patched itself back together.
James married Sarah. People gushed about the happy couple. I listened, stone-faced.
“No regrets?” Lucy asked once.
“None.”
And it was true—about him, at least.
A year later, I met Daniel. Kind, steady. We married, had children. I was happy.
But one secret stayed buried. Not even Daniel knew.
Some nights, passing a playground, I’d see a child with James’s smile. And my heart would ache.
*What if that were mine?*
But I never told a soul. Some wounds are too deep to share.
