**No Air to Breathe**
Emily turned the key slowly in the lock and crept into the flat. No matter how carefully she tried to shut the door, the latch still clicked. Without switching on the light, she undressed and tiptoed toward her room. Then, behind her, the snap of a light switch cut through the quiet like a gunshot.
“Emily, where have you been? It’s so late—I rang Daisy. You lied to me,” Mum’s voice pierced the silence.
Emily froze, inhaled sharply, and turned.
“Why aren’t you asleep?” she shot back.
“How could I sleep when you weren’t home? I was worried.” Mum’s tired eyes searched her daughter’s face.
“I’m grown up, Mum. Stop keeping tabs on me,” Emily muttered.
“Oh, grown up, are you?” Mum waved a hand and retreated to her room, leaving the door ajar.
Emily hesitated, then followed and perched on the edge of the sofa beside her.
“Sorry. I lost track of time.”
Mum looked pale in the harsh lamplight, wrinkles and shadows deepening under her eyes, weary accusation held in her gaze.
“I wasn’t alone. I was with James. We went to the cinema, then for a walk. You don’t have to worry.”
“James?”
“Yes. Met him a fortnight ago. He’s… fascinating. Knows so much.” A dreamy smile flickered on Emily’s lips as she nestled closer, resting her head on Mum’s shoulder.
“So, last time—it was him, not Daisy?”
“Sorry.”
“I understand, love. But why not just tell me? Is he at university too? Will you be studying together?”
“He graduated already. Works in finance,” Emily answered quickly.
“So he’s older then?” Mum exhaled. “Oh, darling…”
Emily lifted her head defensively, but Mum spoke first.
“Will you introduce me?”
“Of course. You’ll like him.”
“I hadn’t realised how much you’ve grown.” Mum cupped Emily’s cheek sadly. “It’s late. Off to bed.”
“Night, Mum.” Emily kissed her mother’s cheek and slipped away.
In bed, she stared at the ceiling, reliving every word, every kiss, lost in reverie.
When she woke, Mum had already left for work. Emily washed, ate the breakfast left for her, and grabbed her phone.
“Hi, you at work already?” she chirped.
“Yes.” A clipped reply.
“Bad time?” Emily tensed at the coldness in his voice.
“Very. I’ll ring later.” The line went dead.
*You’ll ring… “us”?* She stared blankly at the blank screen, stomach twisting. *Someone was there.* She waited, tried to read, but the words blurred together. Television held no distraction. She rang Daisy instead, and they met for ice cream.
Between licks of vanilla, Emily bragged about James, still giddy with infatuation, when his call finally came.
“Sorry, love. Rubbish timing earlier. Swamped at work. Fancy a walk tonight?”
“Yes!” she beamed.
“By the way, Mum wants to meet you,” she told James later, fingers tangled in his.
“You told her?” He stiffened. “She doesn’t mind?” His eyes narrowed.
“Why would she?”
“It’s just… meeting parents feels serious.”
“And we’re not?” Emily pulled back.
“I’m serious about you.” He crushed her against his chest, hiding his face from her. “But mums interrogate. Background checks, the lot.”
“How many girlfriends’ mums have you met?” She poked his ribs teasingly.
“A couple.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to hide, yeah? Or are you secretly married?” She giggled.
“Course not. What nonsense.”
“James! Where are we going?”
“Not much time. Mum expects me back.” He kissed her deeply, and every doubt dissolved.
They walked entwined as he whispered of sleepless nights aching for her, how he’d never felt this way before. When his mother’s health improved, he’d invite Emily over. Since losing Dad, she panicked at late calls, so he silenced his phone at home…
Emily listened, imagining their future—him returning from work with flowers, stolen kisses. It was enough to make her heart flutter.
“So… Saturday? Mum’s baking her chocolate cake,” she ventured as they parted.
His only answer was another searing kiss.
On Saturday, James called—his mum was poorly, paramedics came, he couldn’t leave her…
Emily swallowed disappointment.
“Never mind. He’s a good son. Means he’ll be a good husband.” Mum nudged the cake toward her.
Emily forced down a slice out of politeness, drifting around the flat restlessly. She’d imagined the whole day together. Bloody Daisy, away with her parents.
At Mum’s urging, she stepped outside. Late summer’s warmth lingered, golden and fleeting. She wandered far, bought an ice cream, unwrapped it—then froze.
James, pushing a pram. Beside him, a striking blonde woman. Emily ducked behind a tree, ice cream dripping, heart shattering.
*If not his wife… who?*
She trudged home, tears burning. A stranger snapped at her for straying into their path. At last, she rallied: *He’s not home. No “ill” mother. I can call.* But his phone was off.
Mum met her at the door, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“Tired.” Emily fled to her room.
Later, Mum perched on her bed. Emily lay rigid, staring at the ceiling.
“Did he hurt you?”
Emily turned away. Mum sighed. Lately, Emily had withdrawn, locked in silent torment. Love, yes—but this felt darker.
Next day, James rang, bright-voiced. “Missed you. Got a surprise.”
She bit back *Another one?* and questions about his mum. Curiosity won. “What?”
“Patience. Five o’clock. Don’t be late.”
She preened—found the perfect blouse, left her hair loose.
“Stunning,” James murmured when they met, erasing her doubts.
His surprise? A dingy flat in a maze of backstreets.
“You’re inviting me in? What about your mum?”
“My mate’s place.” He buzzed. A bloke opened the door, ushered them in, then left.
Alone, James kissed her senseless, murmuring love until she melted. Afterward, she finally asked about the pram.
“Neighbour. I was getting medicine—same building,” he dismissed. “You jealous?”
“I thought she was your wife.”
“Em, *you’re* my wife.” He kissed her again, called a cab, and took her home.
She lingered as the cab pulled away, memorising his real address.
Now they met twice weekly at his mate’s flat—hurried, secret. The rest of the week, she ached. He rushed off—”Mum’s injection”—and her life revolved around his scraps of time.
Mum watched her suffocate, irritable and withdrawn.
Autumn faded. Christmas lights twinkled; shoppers bustled.
“New Year plans?” Mum asked.
Emily shrugged. “No idea.”
“Talk to me. You can’t carry this alone.”
Emily lifted pain-filled eyes. “Mum… I’m pregnant.”
Mum clutched her chest. “Does he know?”
She shook her head.
“Tell him.”
They wept together till dawn.
Next day, Emily braved his address. His phone, as ever, was dead. She waited outside his block, finally tailing an elderly neighbour inside. Flat 25.
A baby wailed inside. She pressed her ear to the door.
“Doctor’s here!” A woman’s voice. The door opened—*her.* The blonde.
“Thought you were the GP. Who are you?”
“Does James live here?”
“Yes—Oh!” A crash, renewed crying. The woman vanished inside.
Emily shut the door softly.
*Liar.*
Wife. Baby. No ill mother.
Her phone buzzed later—his furious text: *Why the hell did you come?*
At home, Mum was decorating the tree.
“Emily? Join in!”
She locked herself in the bathroom, ran the bath, found Dad’s old razor…
Water ran red.
Her eyes fluttered open in hospital. Mum, clutching her hand, wept.
“I’m sorry…”
Exams passed in a haze. She blocked James’ number. Time numbed the worst.
That summer, they went to Brighton. She met a boy from the next street over, same city, different uni.
She laughed again—though sometimes, shadows crossed her face.
It passes. Everything does.
*You didn’t know. Couldn’t have.* No one shows you the map at the start—how love twists into lies, waiting, promises that scatter like ash.
*Run. If you can’t run, crawl. Before they break your wings forShe walked by the sea one evening, the salt air filling her lungs, and realized she could breathe again.
