**Flipping Through Life**
They’d always lived as a trio: Grandma Mary, Mum Linda, and Emily. Emily couldn’t remember her father. Once, she’d tentatively asked her mother about him, but Linda just pulled her close, tears welling up. So Emily stopped asking—she didn’t want to upset her.
*I won’t bring it up again,* she decided. *Who needs a dad when we’ve got Grandma and Mum? We’re just fine.*
But Grandma Mary passed when Emily turned ten, leaving just her and Mum. Emily had always loved to draw, scribbling away since she could hold a pencil. Linda never paid much attention to her doodles, only sighing, *”Emily, you’re wasting paper. Shouldn’t you be doing your homework?”*
At school, her art teacher was more encouraging. *”Emily, if you train properly, you could be a brilliant artist. Trust me—I know talent when I see it. Tell your mother I said so.”*
But Linda dismissed it with a wave. *”What does an art teacher know? Still, if it keeps her busy…”* She bought Emily supplies anyway, if only to keep her occupied.
Emily adored painting, especially landscapes. When it came time to leave school, she announced she’d apply to art college. Linda had other ideas.
*”No art college. You’re going to teacher training college.”*
*”But I don’t want to—”*
*”Nobody asked what you want. What kind of job is ‘artist’ anyway?”* Emily didn’t dare argue.
Like any young girl, she dreamed of meeting her prince—tall, handsome, tender. She’d know him the moment she saw him.
With exams looming, Emily escaped to the riverbank with her easel, the only place she felt at peace. The opposite bank had a steep drop into a pine forest. Sometimes she spotted fishermen—some in boats, others casting lines from the shore—and she captured it all, clouds shimmering on the water’s surface.
One day, the painting just wouldn’t cooperate. She frowned at it, frustrated.
*”You’re pressing too hard. Clouds should be light, playful—like this.”* A man’s voice. Before she could react, he took the brush from her hand, barely touching the canvas. The clouds suddenly breathed, trembling to life.
So did Emily’s heart. She looked up—and there he was. Her prince.
*”Hello,”* he said, smiling. *”I’m Anthony.”*
Emily froze, words stuck in her throat. Finally, she managed a whisper. *”Emily.”* He took her hand and—oh!—kissed it. No one had ever done that before.
From then on, they met by the river. He taught her techniques—he was an artist too, visiting his aunt in their sleepy town. He’d graduated from art college but, like so many greats, remained unrecognised. Bitterness laced his voice.
*”They’ll regret it. My time will come, and those talentless fools will see what they missed.”*
He’d say this while holding her, kissing her, until one day… well, things happened. She didn’t resist. She was hopelessly in love.
Then, after a few stolen moments, Anthony vanished. She waited by the river, brush untouched, heart aching.
*”Did he abandon me? He said he loved me… forever.”* But reality sank in—he wasn’t coming back.
Exams ended. Graduation loomed. Then university applications. But Emily felt off.
*”You’re pale,”* Linda fretted. *”What’s wrong?”*
*”Dunno… dizzy…”*
Destiny had other plans. Emily wasn’t heading to university—she was pregnant. Linda erupted. Screaming, crying, stomping. Then, coldly: *”I know a doctor. He’ll fix this.”*
Emily recoiled. *”No. I’m keeping it.”*
*”You don’t get a say! We’re going—today.”*
*”If you force me, I’ll leave. Or worse.”* Her voice was steel. Linda paled.
*”I’m sorry,”* she whispered, crumbling. *”I raised you alone… we’ll raise this baby together.”*
They made peace. Linda never mentioned it again—in fact, she grew excited for the baby. Then came the birth.
Emily woke in hospital. A stranger in a white coat stood by the bed.
*”You’re awake.”*
*”Who are you? Where’s my baby?”*
*”I’m the doctor. She didn’t make it. But you’ll have others.”*
Emily screamed. They sedated her. Later, she insisted on seeing the tiny coffin. That image never left her.
**Years passed.**
Emily never married. Never became an artist. The urge to paint died with her daughter. Time numbed the pain. She trained as a seamstress, working at a factory.
Then Linda fell ill. Emily nursed her, rushing from work to care for her. One day, weakly, Linda whispered: *”Emily… your daughter’s alive. My granddaughter… Mary Elizabeth S—”* She was gone before finishing.
Emily dismissed it as delirium. *She buried her baby. It couldn’t be true.*
Alone, she threw herself into work. Took a loan. Opened a small dressmaking shop. Business thrived—she even hired another seamstress.
Then the dreams started. A beautiful girl in a tan coat, smiling, walking towards her… always vanishing before they met.
One day, a man entered her shop.
*”Are you Emily, the owner?”*
*”Yes?”*
*”Stephen Whitmore. Private investigator.”* He showed a photo—the doctor from the hospital.
*”I remember her. Why?”*
*”Don’t panic… but your daughter’s alive.”*
*”Impossible. I buried her.”*
*”You buried someone else’s child. Your mother paid the doctor to lie. The real Mary Elizabeth is alive.”*
The door opened. A young woman in a cream coat walked in.
Stephen steadied Emily as she swayed. *”Mum…”* the girl said softly. *”I’ve been calling you ‘Mum Emily’ in my head.”*
**A year later.**
Emily fidgeted at her daughter’s wedding. Mary was radiant, the groom dashing.
*”What a gorgeous couple!”* guests cooed.
Then came the bouquet toss. It sailed past outstretched hands—straight into Emily’s.
*”Mum, you’re next!”* Mary laughed.
Flustered, Emily turned—and met Stephen’s gaze.
*”Emily… marry me?”* Her heart melted. She said yes.
Now, flipping through her life, Emily sometimes thinks of Anthony, the pregnancy, the lost years. It was hard—but life rewarded her. She’s happy. Even has a grandson now.
