Abandoned for Love
Mum came home from work more animated than usual, her cheeks tinged pink, sporting a brand-new smilewarm and oddly hopeful, the likes of which Emily hadn’t seen in ages. Something fluttered inside the girl’s chest; for the first time in what felt like forever, Mum actually looked almost happy.
“Em, I met the most wonderful man today!” Mum hung her coat on the rack and squatted down, clasping Emily’s little hands in hers. “His name is Oliver. He works for a construction firma proper dependable chap, he is.”
At the time, all Emily could do was nod, not quite grasping why this was such a grand event. But Mum was radiantthe sparkle in her eyes, that magical sort of smileenough for Emily to feel a little bubble of joy herself, as though someone had lit a small, warm hope inside her.
Over the next few weeks, Mum couldnt seem to mention anything but Oliver: how hed helped an elderly lady with her shopping bags, organised a charity fundraiser for the local childrens home, fixed a broken kettle (and, probably, a national grid with a pair of pliers, if Mum was to be believed). Emily listened politely, but a wobbly uncertainty crept around her heart. Something was about to changeshe just had that feelingand it wasnt likely to be for the better.
The grand first meeting happened at a cosy café near their terraced house. Oliver arrived: tall, trim, with a stiff upper lip and a mouth so taut youd think he was auditioning for the role of British Sea Power during rationing. Smiled rarelywhen he did, it didnt quite make it up to his eyes. In fact, the only things colder mightve been the iced lemon drizzle cake in the glass counter.
“This is my Emily,” Mum said, ruffling her hair in the familiar, comforting way that made Emily feel, well, a little safer. “Shes eight and in Year Three.”
Oliver gave her a quick, appraising glanceas one might give a footstool in John Lewis before deciding it didnt match the curtainsthen looked back at Mum. “Pretty,” he mused. “How old?”
“Eight, like I said,” Mum beamed, oblivious to his distant tone, missing the glacial chill in his voice.
On Oliver spoke, mostly to Mum, throwing the occasional gruff phrase Emilys waydetached, as if she was a fly buzzing round his pudding. When Emily asked if she could go and look at the fish tank by the door, he shielded his coffee like a bodyguard and muttered, Just dont make a racket.
Mum, entirely besotted, noticed nothing. She was too wrapped up in her new love, blissfully blinded by romantic sunlight. Emily, on the other hand, realised that Oliver would never be the kind, story-reading, piggyback-giving, bike-teaching dad shed hoped for. He wouldnt do any of that. Probably couldnt be trusted to assemble a flat-pack bookcase, let alone a childhood.
Time passed; Oliver lurked around more and more. He never came empty-handedbut strangely, all the gifts were pointedly for Mum. Emily never got so much as a fruit pastille. When Emily tried to chat, he barely nodded, clearly not listening. Try to hug Mum if Oliver was nearby? Hed subtly lean away, as if allergic to her very existence.
Once, Emily accidentally nudged his tea, splashing his shirt. He snatched his arm back. “Do keep your hands to yourself! Butterfingers.”
Mum was falling over herself with apologies. Oh sorry, love! Emmy, go fetch some kitchen roll, wont you?
While Emily ran off, she heard Olivers voice drift incold and sharp as a winter breeze. “Rosie, shes far too noisy and clumsy. Always under my feet. Im sick to the back teeth!”
“Now come on, shes just a child,” Mum half-whispered, her voice shaking ever so slightly. “She needs a mans attentionshe needs a father.”
“Who says Im signing up for that?” Olivers tone could have frozen the Thames. “Not interested in raising someone elses child.”
Really, Mum ought to have let those words sink in, butbless hershe was in love and saw Oliver through the rosiest of spectacles. Poor judgement, really.
After the weddinga small registry affair about six months laterthings just went downhill faster than a loose pram on Primrose Hill. Oliver moved in, and their flat, once brimming with Mums laughter and bedtime stories, had all the warmth of a forgotten Tupperware of sprouts.
He never shouted at Emily. Far more effective: every icy glare, every click of his tongue communicated more than words. Laugh too loudly? One raised eyebrow and youd be more silent than a church pudding. Ask a question? His reply was so brief it made a Brexit sound like a love letter. Even her voice seemed to become a bothera dull hum spoiling his daily schedule of silent disapproval.
One night, pretending to sleep, Emily heard raised voices. Oliver againcouldnt even muster basic politeness with doors one room away. Emily slid closer, eavesdropping, heart pounding.
“Rosie, I cant go on. Every time I see her, I get cross. She looks like your ex, nothing like you.”
“But shes just a little girl!” Mums voice sounded broken, desperate. “Its not her fault!”
“I know. But I cant feel anything for her except annoyance. Its tearing us apart. Figure something out.”
Emily froze, a lump in her throat, heart squeezed tight enough to make lemon juice. Soit was her. She was the problem. The room seemed darker; the last hope quietly fizzled out.
“What are you suggesting?” Mums question was feather-light, nearly a whisperfull of defeat.
“You have a choice,” Oliver said, chair scraping as he stood. “She goes to your mothers. Or Im leaving. I cant live with her here.”
Emily held her breath, petrified even her lungs might betray her.
“Fine,” said Mum at last. “Ill talk to Mumshe lives close by, Emily will be safe there”
“Good,” Olivers tone instantly softened, practically purring with satisfaction. “I knew youd understand. No more little shadow underfoot. And if I want kids, youll give me a son, wont you, darling?”
Emily shut her eyes tight, but tears came anyway, stinging her cheeks. How could Mum give in so easily? Apparently, the man trumped the daughtera daughter whod believed in her so fiercely.
The next day, avoiding her daughters gaze, Mum muttered, “Sweetheart, Grandmas been missing you. Why not stay with her for a couple of weeks? Just while things settle down. Ill come every day.”
Emily nodded, swallowing hot, salty tears. She understood everything, no explanations needed. She felt empty, hollow, as if something vital had been torn out of her.
The move happened three days later. Grandma welcomed Emily with a hug and a freshly-baked apple tart, the scent usually capable of coaxing a smile from anyone. Today, nothing warmed Emily. She felt traitorously discarded, like an unwanted Christmas jumper. Mum did keep visitingbut less and less, until her daughter was more a distant memory than a living person.
Only Grandma, stroking Emilys hair before bed, whispered:
“Itll all come right, poppet. Somehow it always does.”
But deep down, Emily knewher life had changed for good. A crack ran right through her, and she had no idea if it would ever heal.
***
Those first days, Mum came often, almost every night. She brought Emilys favourite sweets and tried her best to joke, but her eyes gave it all awaysad and distant, smile stuck on like a wonky postage stamp. Emily couldnt help comparing Mum to a doll now: pretty to look at, but empty and cold inside.
“How is it here, love?” Mum would stroke her hair, perched on the edge of the bed. “Grandma behaving herself?”
“Course, shes the best,” Emily mustered false brightness. “Apple pies all the time”
“Good,” Mum would say and then drift off into her own thoughts. “I just I miss you. But, I cant bring you home right now. Hold on, just a bit longer.”
Emily would nod and smile bravely, but inside, she sensed the truth. Mum missed her, yesbut she was also relieved not to see Olivers grimace every day, not to confront the awkward, prickly tension her presence brought to their home.
Mums visits grew shorter and farther between. Every evening became every other, then only weekends. One Saturday, Mum simply rang: “Petal, Oliver and I have plans tonightthe theatre. Ill see you tomorrow, Ill bring your favourite mint choc chip!”
Emily gulped down a huge lump in her throat, forcing her reply to sound perky: “Lovely. Have fun.
She sat on the windowsill, watching raindrops race each other, and finally understoodMum had chosen Oliver. The pain was so sharp, she thought she might suffocate.
Grandma, worried, did her best to cheer Emily uppark trips, carousels, hot chocolate from the little stand that never closes, not even when its raining sideways.
“Lets go to the park?” Grandma offered.
“All right,” Emily would reply, though she knew no rides would fill the space where Mum should be.
School was getting tricky, too. Shed been bubbly, always the first to shout news across the playground. Now, she became quiet, hanging back, watching other children laugh and swap stickers. One nosy girl asked, “Em, why are you living with your gran now?” to which Emily just shrugged, blinking back tears.
Walking home one afternoon, head down, she bumped smack intoastonishinglyMum.
“Mum?” she squeaked.
“Em! I was just coming to surprise you, Mum smiled apologetically.
They walked together. Mum told stories of her dayof how Oliver helped her pick out a new coat (plaid, apparently, was the new black). Emily barely listened. She drank in every word, every glance, every smile, pretending, just for a few minutes, that the world might be all right again.
“Mum,” Emily squeezed her hand extra tight, “why dont you come as often now?”
Mum stopped, knelt down, and gazed into Emilys eyes, the same pain reflected in both.
“Sweetheart, its so hard. Part of me wants to be with you, the other part loves Oliver. I feel torn in twolike Im leaving pieces of myself everywhere.”
“You didnt have to send me to Grandma,” Emily whispered, full of wounded-child hurt. “Why did you listen to him?”
Mum looked away, tears welling up. “I thought it was best for everyone. I know I was wrong terribly wrong.”
Emily was silent. She wanted to hug Mum, to say she forgave her. But the hurt inside her was still too sharp for that.
“Ill try to come more,” Mum said, promising the world. Emily nodded, but didnt believe it.
To Mums credit, she did appear more often for a whiletrips, baking, films. Emily dared hope things might return to normal.
But one evening, Mum arrived looking guilty. Emily knew trouble was brewing.
“Sweetheart,” she said, cold hands clutching Emilys, “Olivers upset again. He says Im spending more time with you than with the family.”
Emily felt the familiar chill. “So what now?”
“He suggests a compromise. You stay with us at weekends, but live here in the week. That way, everyones happy.
“All right,” Emily pretended it was fine. But inside, she knew: her life had been splitnot just into ‘before’ and ‘after’, but now into weekdays and weekends.
On Saturdays and Sundays, Emily played the perfect daughter, tiptoeing round Oliver, making herself as invisible as dust. He was polite, officially, but always distantas if he were tolerating her for appearances sake. Mum was stretched thin, anxious to please everyone. The old warmth had all but drained from her eyes.
Months went by. Emily hardened, learned to hide feelings, to act like everything was fine. She got good grades, helped Grandma with everything, made friends; but inside, the wound remained from the day she was sent away.
Only Grandma, hugging her at bedtime, whispered:
“Youre not to blame, darling. Youre the best thing Ive got. Im always here.”
Her words warmed her, but not quite enough to heal the ache entirely.
***
Years went by. Nine, then ten, then eleven. ‘Weekdays at Grandmas, weekends at Mums’ became totally normalalmost cozy, if you didnt think too hard about it. Emily stopped wishing for miracles, stopped expecting Mum to apologise, stopped hoping Mum would ever say, “Come home, Em, lets be a family again.” Because, well, this was real life, not an advert for Happy Families.
At school, Emily kept her distance. There were classmates to chat with about fractions or Doctor Who, but true friends felt like too big a riskwhat if they left too? She clung closer to Grandma instead. They baked, knitted, embroidered, filled their tiny flat with scents of vanilla and cinnamon. The geraniums on the windowsill bloomed regardless of the weathera daily reminder that beauty pokes through, even on the greyest days.
“Gran, why dont you ever scold meeven when I mess up?” Emily asked once.
Grandma smiled, tucked back a stray hair. “Why would I scold you, love? You do your best, thats all anyone can ask.”
Tears pricked Emilys eyes. Grandma never gave false promises; but her steadiness made the hurt easier to bear.
One Saturday morning, Mum arrived earlyso early Emily was still asleep.
“Up you get, sleepyhead,” Mum whispered, that old tenderness in her voice for a second. “Were going to the parkOlivers got tickets for the rides!”
Emily blinked. “Really?” It seemed impossible; Oliver, family outings, tickets?
“Swear on my life,” Mum beamed. “He said he wants to spend the day with the family.”
At the park, Oliver played at being an ordinary parent: bought candyfloss, posed with Mum and Emily for a phone snap at the fountain. For a moment, Emily dared to believemaybe things were changing; maybe he was thawing.
In the evening, back home, she heard Oliver mutter to Mum, “Well, I did my bit. But this isnt for me. I cant play dad every day, Rosie. Lets just stick to her coming for holidays. Thats fairer.”
Mum sighed. “Fine, Oliver. Whatever you say.”
Emily, who heard it all, crawled under her duvet and stayed there. Now she knew for sureOliver would never accept her. And Mum would always choose him.
The very next day, Mum arrived alone at Grandmas, all awkwardness and tea towel arms.
“Em, Oliver thinks its best if we only see each other on special occasions. Just for family peace, you understand”
“Peace for who? Him?” Emilys voice was brittle.
“Its best for the family, darling. He wants stability.”
“And me? Dont my feelings count?”
“Youre grown up now,” Mum soothed, patting her hand with a touch that felt foreign. “Youll understand. Well still see each other of coursejust not so often.”
Emily nodded. No tears, just a cold clarity: she wasnt part of this ‘stable’ family. It was as if shed been erased from the script. Her pages: blank.
From then on, their meetings became rarebig holidays, sporadic weekends if Oliver was in a half-decent mood. Emily taught herself not to hope, not to count on anything. She busied herself with Grandma, learned to pickle vegetables, found friends on the estate. Gradually, she realised the world was a little broader than her living room.
At thirteen, Emily said, “Gran, I think Ive forgiven Mum. No use holding a grudge; nothing can change the past. She has her life, I have mine. Easier all round.”
Grandma gave her a hug so fierce and warm that Emily nearly melted.
“Good girl. Let it go, love. Your mums a scared woman is allfrightened of being alone. Leave the judging to the Almighty.
***
By fifteen, Emily knew her mind. She was brilliant at English and art. Mrs. Collins, her English teacher, once said:
“Youve got real talent, Emily. You can make people feel things with words. You ought to be a journalistor a writer!”
Those words warmed Emily more than any heating. She started a diarynot just lists, but story sketches, observations, tiny slices of her real self. Words on paper said what she couldnt otherwise.
One day, Grandma found the diary. Emily panicked, but Grandma just smiled.
“Shall I keep it safe? For when youre famous? Itll be proof of how you started.”
Emily laughed for the first time in ages. “Do you really think so?”
“Of course. You notice what most people miss. That matters, you know.”
When Emily turned eighteen and was accepted to study journalism in London, Mum beamed, “Brilliant! Knew youd do something clever.”
They were sitting in Grandma’s kitchen, mugs of tea in hand. Oliver, as always, nowhere to be found during anything meaningful.
“Mum,” Emily finally asked, “if you had it all to do over, would you send me away again?”
Mum stared at her teacup. “No, love. I wouldnt. I was young, naiveterrified of losing Oliver. Now I see I should have put you first.”
Emily nodded. Those words were important, even if a bit late. For the first time, she felt the last of her burden lifting off her shoulders.
After uni, Emily landed a job at the local paper. She wrote about real people, small lives, and the bigger picture they added up to. One assignment sent her to cover a charity day for foster children. She spent the whole afternoon listening, taking pictures, jotting stories. In their eyes, she saw a pain she knew welland realised she could offer something, even just with a kind word.
Walking home, she recognised all the old wounds had, in fact, made her who she was. Yes, shed suffered, but it taught her empathy, honesty, and love.
***
A few years later, Emily married Davida gentle, solid bloke who hit it off instantly with Grandma. He didnt bother with false jollity. First time he visited, he rolled up his sleeves and got stuck into patching Grandmas leaky tap. Emily watched him, a lightness in her chestthe sense of home at last.
When their daughter, Daisy, was born, Emily made a promise: her little girl would never, ever feel unwanted. Every evening, as Daisy drifted off, Emily whispered, “Youre the most precious thing I have in the whole world.”
One afternoon, Daisy, aged five, rummaged through old photos at Grandmas.
“Grandma, was this you?” she asked, pointing to a picture of a youthful, graceful Grandma.
Grandma laughed, “Thats me and Granddad, love, a thousand years ago.”
“Mum, were you little once?”
Emily knelt beside her. “Of course I was. I lived here, with Grandma.”
“And she loved you?”
“More than anything,” Emily said, hugging her, breathing in her soft, sunny smell. “Just like I love you.”
Daisy was quiet for a moment, then said seriously, “Then Im the luckiestthe only one with a mummy, a grandma, and a daddy.”
The lump in Emilys throat was there againbut, for once, it was happy.
“Yes, love. You really are the luckiest.”
Just then, Grandma came in, Mum Rosie in tow.
“Whats going on here?” she grinnedsomething new and deep in her eyes, as if she properly saw her daughter for the first time.
“Were discussing happiness,” Daisy replied. “Grandma loves Mum, Mum loves me, and we all love each other!”
Rosie looked at Emily. In her gaze, for the first time, was open, unjudging love. Pride, evennot for what Emily had done, but for just being there.
“Yes,” said Mum softly. “We do. Always together.”
Emily reached for her Mums handand for the first time, she truly believed it.
Later, after Daisy fell asleep and Grandma went to make more tea, Emily and Rosie sat quietly together.
“You know,” Mum began, “I missed so much, Em. All that time I was scaredscared of losing a manI nearly lost you. Im sorry.”
Emily took a deep breath. For the first time, no resentment, just a gentle sorrow for what couldnt be fixed.
“I get it, Mum. You just wanted to be happy. Now we can try for something real.”
***
The years rolled on. Daisy grewlearning, laughing, toppling and getting back upalways sure she was loved. Grandma baked. Mum shared stories. David told dreadful jokes. Emily wrotearticles, columns, and eventually a book.
One evening, as Emily turned through the pages of her first published novel, she heard Daisy yell from the next room:
“Mum! Grandma says this is YOUR bookwith your photo on!”
Emily smiled, walked over, and hugged her daughter.
“Thats mine, darling. Its all about believing in yourself, and loving bravely.”
“Can I write a book when Im big?”
“Of course, love. Just write the truth. And rememberyoull always be loved, no matter what.”
Daisy nodded, grave as a small professor, as if shed agreed to lifes most vital rule.
And Emily, gazing out the window at the London twilight, felt only quiet gratitudefor Grandma, for Mum, for David, for Daisyfor every hard step that led her here, to this real, brave, imperfect, utterly her own life.
