**Turning the Pages of Life**
We’ve always lived as a trio: Grandma Vera, Mum Val, and me, Emily. I don’t remember my father—once, I tried asking Mum about him, but she just pulled me close, tears welling in her eyes. So I never asked again. I didn’t want to upset her.
“I won’t bring it up anymore,” I decided. “Why do I need a father when Mum and Gran make life so lovely?”
But Gran passed away when I turned ten, leaving just Mum and me. I’d always loved to paint, ever since I was little, scribbling on anything I could find. Valerie never paid much attention to my sketches, only sighing, “Emily, you’re wasting paper when you should be studying.”
At school, my art teacher praised me endlessly. “Emily, if you train properly, you could go far. Believe me—I know talent when I see it. Tell your mother I said so.”
Mum dismissed it with a wave. “What does a simple art teacher know? Fine, let her doodle if it keeps her busy.” Still, she bought me paints and brushes, and I lost myself in my work, especially landscapes.
When it came time to choose a university, I set my heart on art school. Mum had other plans. “No art school. You’re going to teacher training college.”
“Mum, I don’t want—”
“It’s not up for debate. What kind of career is ‘artist’?” I couldn’t defy her.
Like any girl, I dreamed of a prince—tall, handsome, tender. I’d know him the moment we met.
Exam season arrived, and to calm my nerves, I took my easel to the river. Only there did I feel truly happy, capturing the water, the sky, the steep cliffs on the far bank crowned with pine woods. Sometimes, I’d spot fishermen below, some in boats, others casting lines from the shore. I painted it all, chasing the way the clouds shimmered on the water’s surface.
One day, my brushstrokes felt clumsy, the colours dull. I frowned at the mess before me.
“You’re pressing too hard. The paint should glide—like this.” A man’s voice startled me. He took my brush, barely grazing the canvas, and suddenly, the clouds breathed.
But it wasn’t just the clouds that trembled—my heart raced too. I looked up and froze. There he was: my prince.
“Hello,” he smiled. “What’s your name? I’m William.”
I barely managed a whisper. “Emily.” He kissed my hand—softly, tenderly—something no one had ever done.
From then on, we met by the river. He taught me techniques, confessing he’d studied art in London but, like so many, remained unrecognised. Bitterness edged his voice. “They’ll regret it. My time will come.”
He’d say this while holding me, kissing me, and before I knew it, I’d given myself to him completely. It happened twice more—then he vanished. I waited by the river for weeks, but my brush stayed untouched.
“Did he leave me? He said he loved me…” The truth settled slowly: William was gone.
Exams ended, graduation loomed, and my mood soured. Then, one morning, I felt ill. Mum panicked. “You’re pale as a ghost!”
A doctor confirmed it: I was pregnant. Mum raged, wept, then hissed, “I know a doctor. He’ll take care of it—for a price.”
Horror seized me. “No. I won’t do it.”
“You think you have a choice? We’re going.”
“Try to force me, and I’ll walk out—or worse.” My tone turned her ashen. She crumpled, sobbing. “Forgive me. I raised you alone—we’ll raise this child together.”
We never spoke of it again. Instead, Mum doted on my growing bump. When labour came, I was rushed to hospital.
I woke to a stranger in white. “You’re awake. Good.”
“Who are you? Where’s my daughter?”
“I’m the doctor. I’m sorry—she didn’t survive. But you’ll have others.”
I screamed until a needle dragged me under. Later, I insisted on seeing her—a tiny coffin, a fleeting glimpse of her face. The image seared into my memory.
Years passed. I never married, never painted again. That part of me died with my daughter. Time numbed the pain. I trained as a seamstress, working in a factory until Mum fell ill. I nursed her, but she faded daily. One evening, she gasped, “Emily… your daughter’s alive. My granddaughter—Victoria… Victoria Stevens…” Her eyes glazed over.
I dismissed it as delirium. I’d buried my child—how could she live?
After Mum’s funeral, loneliness gnawed at me. To cope, I took a loan and opened a small dressmaking shop. Business thrived—I even hired an assistant. Life was steady, if not joyful.
Then the dreams began: a girl in a beige coat, smiling, walking toward me—always vanishing before I could reach her.
One day, a stranger entered my shop. “Are you Emily, the owner?”
“That’s me.”
“Stephen Wilkes, private investigator.” He showed me a photo—the doctor from that night. “Do you remember her?”
Dread coiled in my stomach. “Yes. What’s this about?”
“Your daughter is alive.”
“That’s impossible. I buried her.”
“You buried another woman’s child. Yours was given away—your mother paid the doctor to lie. The woman’s dying now. She wanted you to know.”
“Where is she? What’s her name?”
“Victoria Stevens.” The door chimed. A beautiful woman in a pale coat stepped in.
Stephen caught me as my knees buckled. Mum’s last words echoed: *Victoria Stevens…*
“Darling, forgive me for believing you were gone,” I sobbed.
“Let’s just be glad we found each other,” she said softly. “My parents—the ones who raised me—died last year in a car crash. They never knew I wasn’t theirs. But… I can’t call you ‘Mum’ yet. May I say ‘Mama Emily’?”
A year later, I stood at her wedding, heart fluttering. The bride glowed; the groom beamed. Guests murmured, “What a beautiful couple.”
Then, as Victoria tossed her bouquet, it sailed past a dozen outstretched hands—straight into mine.
“Mama Emily, you’re next!” she laughed.
Flustered, I met Stephen’s gaze.
“Marry me,” he said. My heart melted. I said yes.
Now, as I turn life’s pages, I sometimes think of William, the pregnancy, the years without my girl. It wasn’t easy—but life has repaid every tear. We’re happy. Even little Oliver, our grandson, is proof of that.
