**Ill-Timed Love**
Agatha peeked into her mother’s room, saw her sleeping, and quietly shut the door.
“Agatha,” her mother called suddenly in a weak voice.
“Yes, Mum?” Agatha stepped back inside. “I thought you were asleep. Do you need anything? I was just going for a bit of a walk with the girls.”
“Go on, I’ll rest,” replied Julia, closing her eyes. Even lifting her heavy lids took tremendous effort.
Agatha let out a relieved breath and hurried to get dressed. Over the months of her mother’s illness, she had grown accustomed to moving silently. Now she tiptoed down the stairs without a sound. By the entrance, her classmate Michael Turner was waiting.
“Took you long enough,” he grumbled instead of greeting her.
“Had to make Mum some broth. Where are we going?” Agatha smiled, trying to smooth things over.
“Is she still poorly?”
“Yes, just fell asleep. Not too long, alright? In case she needs me,” Agatha pleaded.
“She’ll be fine after a nap,” Michael said carelessly.
Agatha bit her lip. She hadn’t told anyone what her mother was really suffering from. She didn’t want pity, didn’t want gossip at school.
“Brilliant, now it’s raining. Let’s go to Alex’s—his parents are away at their cottage,” Michael lowered his voice, pulling her close and trying to kiss her. But Agatha jerked her head away.
“What are you doing? Someone might see.”
“Who? Your mum’s asleep. Come on?”
Agatha hesitated. Last time they’d gone to Alex’s, Michael had pressed her too far. She liked him, but he rushed things.
“Just half an hour, Ags. Promise I won’t push,” he begged. The rain was coming down harder now.
“Fine, but not for long,” she relented.
“Course not.” Michael tried to hide his delight.
Alex opened the door and smirked when he saw them. “Come in.”
Agatha didn’t move. She didn’t want to be alone with two lads.
“Downloaded a cracking film yesterday,” Alex said. Michael kicked off his trainers and followed him. Agatha thought of leaving then, but she didn’t want to go home either.
She closed the door and entered the room, sitting beside Michael. His arm slithered around the back of the sofa behind her. Alex handed each of them a can of lager. Agatha refused hers, so Michael took it. She gave him a sidelong look but said nothing.
The film was gripping from the start, pulling her in. She only snapped out of it when she felt Michael’s hot, searching hand under her jumper. She flinched, but he held her shoulder, squeezing her chest painfully with his other hand.
“That hurts!” she cried.
Michael loosened his grip, and Agatha leapt up. Alex was gone—she hadn’t even noticed him leave.
“Agatha, sorry,” Michael mumbled.
“You promised!” she flared.
“Don’t be daft. Why’re you acting like it’s your first time? I love you.” He stood too.
It was the first time he’d said it, and Agatha couldn’t push him away. He kissed her, his breath sour with lager. His hands turned rough, insistent.
“Stop it, I need to go—” she gasped, shoving at his chest.
Suddenly, Michael grabbed her and shoved her onto the sofa, pinning her down. Agatha twisted, kneeing him hard between the legs.
He cursed and rolled off. She scrambled up, dashed to the hall, snatched her shoes, and fumbled with the lock.
“Fine, sod off then!” he yelled after her.
Agatha fled down the stairs in her socks, only stopping to pull on her trainers when she realised no one was chasing her.
How could she have trusted him? Her mother was ill at home, and all he wanted was one thing.
Back home, she scrubbed her face and neck clean of his slobbery kisses. Then she sat in the dark, thinking: what if Mum died? She’d be entirely alone. How would she live? In two months, she’d turn eighteen—no more child support from her absent father. No money, not even for a prom dress. Well, she’d manage, so long as Mum got better.
Agatha had found out about the cancer herself. She’d felt it was worse than Mum let on. A quick search of the medication names online confirmed it.
Her phone buzzed—Michael. *Agatha, sorry.* She ignored it. Messages piled up: apologies, then curses, demands. She turned the phone off.
Before bed, she checked on her mother. “Mum, are you asleep?”
Julia forced her eyes open. “Need anything? Water? Loo?”
Her mother shook her head faintly, eyelids drooping again.
Morning came with a crash. Agatha bolted into her mother’s room to find her swaying on trembling legs, gripping the bedframe. A chair lay overturned.
Agatha rushed to guide her back to bed, shocked by how light and frail she’d become.
“Why didn’t you call me?” she scolded.
“Thought I could…” Julia panted as if she’d run a mile.
“I’ll make tea.” Agatha darted to the kitchen.
Her mother took two sips and refused the rest. She hadn’t eaten in days, barely left the bed.
Agatha’s stomach churned. She wanted to stay with her, especially after last night—she couldn’t face Michael. But exams were coming. She decided to skip the last lesson, history, and come home early.
When she returned, her mother was asleep. Agatha kept checking, but she hadn’t moved. A sickening dread settled in. She touched her mother’s bony shoulder—and knew.
She stumbled out, hand over her mouth, unsure what to do. She ran to the neighbour, an older woman always home. The neighbour took one look at Agatha’s face and understood. She called an ambulance, then the funeral home.
Later, the council covered the funeral, neighbours pooled money, and parents from school chipped in. Through it all, Agatha moved like a ghost. The woman in the coffin wasn’t her mother—just a stranger. She clung to memories of her before the illness.
One day, while sorting papers, Agatha found a school notebook filled with her mother’s handwriting. No dates—just scattered memories. Why had she written them?
*… How old was I when I met Stephen? Younger than Agatha is now. His surname caught my eye—Carrington. I asked if he was related to the famous writer. Just a coincidence, he said.*
*I met him too soon. Seven years older, he seemed so worldly. I didn’t realise it was love—real, lasting love. He never pushed me. What could I have offered him? I was foolish, didn’t understand, let happiness slip away.*
*Love comes at the wrong time sometimes. I wanted dances and teddy bears, not French perfume. Even Agatha’s more grown-up than I was back then.*
*He didn’t wait. Married someone else. I raged when I heard—how could he say he loved me, then marry another? But soon I met John, my future husband. Just fun at first: dances, films. I went to university; he failed exams, joined the army.*
*Letters were rare. Two years passed. When he returned, I was different—had a few flings. But he’d grown up, handsome. He got a job, proposed fast. I panicked—too young, hadn’t finished uni…*
*He left angry. Pride kept me from chasing him. He came back days later, acting like nothing happened.*
*He was my first. I’d imagined romance, candles. Instead, it was clumsy, unpleasant. No fireworks, no joy.*
*We married three months later. The wedding’s a blur. By night, my hair was a tangled mess. John snored through our wedding night.*
*Between uni and housework, I struggled. He craved attention. We fought. Then pregnancy, birth…*
*He strayed. Came home late or not at all. Divorce was ugly. Alone with a child was harder.*
*I thought of Stephen often. Older, wiser. Maybe with him, life would’ve been kinder. We idealise those we lose.*
*Then the diagnosis—like a bolt from the blue. I fainted at work. They gave me two months; I lasted two years. But now the end’s near. My poor girl, alone in the world…*
Later, the handwriting steadied:
*…Why didn’t I journal sooner? Re-reading, it’s like yesterday. So many warnings I missed. Life’s in the details—but we see too late…*
Agatha wept. Her mother had known love—real love, not like her mess with Michael. For days, the story haunted her. She searched online for Stephen Carrington, age guessed, scrolled through hundreds of profiles.
In an album, she found a faded photo: *”For keepsake. Stephen.”* She messagedShe held the photo close, whispering to the empty room, “Mum, I found him for you.”
