Unaffectionate
From childhood, Emily despised her name. Old-fashioned, frumpy. When she grew older, her mother told her that in his youth, her father had been smitten with a dazzling woman named Emily—beautiful, vibrant. He’d loved her deeply, but she rejected him and married another.
“Then he met me. And when you were born, he named you after her. Never quite forgot that first love,” her mother said calmly.
“And you don’t resent him for it?”
“No. He loves you and me. But first loves stick with people forever. You’ll have yours one day too.” Her mother ruffled Emily’s hair.
“Was his Emily ugly too?” the girl huffed.
“Don’t be absurd! Remember the ugly duckling? And if you hate the name so much, you can change it when you’re older. What would you like instead?”
Emily stood before the mirror, trying on names like dresses. None fit. She sighed, deciding another name wouldn’t make her prettier. It wasn’t the name that made a person beautiful. Besides, she’d grown used to it.
But she doubted anyone would ever love her as her father had loved that Emily. Mousy, ill-defined hair, narrow eyes, a sharp chin—plain as day.
Her father loved Emily almost as much as he loved a drink. After work, he’d stop at the pub, coming home mellow, always bearing gifts: chocolates, sweets, trinkets. If he forgot, he’d hand her cash. She saved it, buying what she pleased.
When she finished school, her father drowned. Drunk, he’d waded into the river after a child’s ball and never resurfaced.
Her mother cursed him for leaving them. How would they manage? Emily needed an education, but their village offered little.
Emily grieved bitterly but refused to leave. Her mother insisted.
“Stay for what? Go, maybe you’ll find a husband.”
So she left. She dreamed of becoming a doctor but knew her small-town schooling wouldn’t get her into medical school. She enrolled in nursing college instead. The white uniforms thrilled her.
Her dorm roommate was Margot—striking, blessed by genetics. A curly-haired brunette with tan skin, dark eyes, and a figure to envy. Emily paled in comparison.
She envied Margot, who basked in the contrast. They got along, sharing the room without issue—until Margot met Paul, a student from the polytechnic.
Emily lost her head the moment she saw him. Handsome, impossible to resist. He’d wait impatiently while Margot studied, sighing as she dismissed him.
“Take Emily to the cinema. I’ve got exams,” Margot would say.
Emily would’ve melted beside him in the dark, but Paul never asked. He’d linger, sigh, then leave.
“Why do you brush him off?” Emily fumed. “If someone like him waited for me, I’d be over the moon!”
“Honestly, he’s not serious. Girls flock to him now—imagine later. Aim lower, love.”
Emily was average in her studies. One evening, Paul arrived to find Margot gone. A pan of fried potatoes sat on the table, the smell irresistible.
“Join me? Margot will be back soon,” Emily offered, watching him swallow hard.
Paul didn’t need convincing. He wolfed it down while Emily watched, adoring, praying Margot stayed away.
“You’d make a good wife,” he said, leaning back like a satisfied cat.
One Saturday, Paul arrived for their cinema date, but Margot had gone home.
“Apologise for me,” she’d told Emily.
Emily cooked, hopeful.
“I bought tickets,” Paul grumbled upon learning Margot was gone.
“Take me instead,” Emily teased. “Unless you’re embarrassed?”
“Course not. Get dressed.”
Her heart raced. An hour and a half beside him—maybe he’d even hold her hand. She dashed out before he changed his mind.
He gave her a once-over, unimpressed.
She chattered the whole way, weaving funny stories, slipping her arm through his. He laughed, letting her cling until they reached the cinema.
The film was gripping, but Emily barely watched, waiting for his touch. During a tense scene, she grabbed his hand, pretending fear. She didn’t let go.
Afterwards, he walked her back.
“Fancy a bite?” he asked.
“Waste of money. I’ve got bacon at home—just arrived yesterday. Better than any café.” She led him back without asking.
They had wine. Full and tipsy, Paul dozed off on Margot’s bed. Emily turned off the light and sat beside him. He nuzzled against her, then kissed her—maybe thinking she was Margot. Maybe not caring. She kissed back, breathless.
“Sorry,” he muttered in the morning. “Don’t tell Margot.”
She felt no guilt, only joy. Paul didn’t either—he never said no.
Three weeks later, Emily knew she was pregnant.
“Who’s the father?” Margot asked.
“Paul,” she admitted.
“Quick work. Don’t expect a ring.”
Emily told Paul.
“Was an accident. Sort it yourself,” he said.
Hurt but resolute, she said she’d keep the baby.
“Suit yourself.”
She finished her exams but missed graduation, rushed to hospital in labour. She had a girl. Margot visited, handing her money and clothes.
“From the girls—I squeezed Paul too. Going home?”
Emily shook her head.
“Thought so. The dorm won’t keep you. I found a room—landlady’s lonely, cheap rent.”
Luck, in a way. The landlady, Mrs. Whitmore, took pity, helping however she could.
“Paul gave cash, but that’s it. He’s seeing someone,” Margot said before leaving. “Delayed my trip for you.”
Emily wept.
“Stop—you’ll lose your milk,” Mrs. Whitmore scolded.
Money ran out, but Mrs. Whitmore adored the baby. She brushed off Emily’s apologies, feeding her, even bringing friends for paid injections. Emily grew bolder, taking night shifts at the hospital to be with her daughter by day.
Once, near the city centre, she bumped into Paul. He peeked into the pram, then started visiting with small gifts.
Then Mrs. Whitmore died in her sleep. She’d always said she’d leave the flat to Emily, who hadn’t believed her. Sorting her things, Emily found the will. The police questioned her, but Mrs. Whitmore’s friends vouched fiercely for her.
Now Emily had her own home. When Paul called to visit, she cooked his favourites. He still loved to eat.
One day, he proposed.
“I’m not a complete bastard.”
She knew it was the flat, not love. But she agreed. Nothing changed—Paul came and went, living as he pleased. She was content. He always came back.
Then she noticed a shift. Distant, thoughtful, staring past her. Not eating, just pushing pasta around. For the first time, she worried.
She called his mate and learned the truth: Paul had fallen for a lounge singer.
Emily went to see her. Slim, blonde, a sparkling dress slit to the thigh. A voice like honey. Emily, post-baby, had lost her waist.
This time, she knew it was serious. At first, she pretended ignorance. She loved him—she’d never kick him out. But Paul grew shameless, stumbling home at dawn, reeking of another woman.
One night, he arrived late, finding her awake.
“I’m leaving,” he said. “I’ll send money for the girl.”
“Go,” she said. He’d married her but never promised love.
By then, they’d renovated the flat. Her daughter started school. Emily worked at the hospital, still doing injections on the side. Mrs. Whitmore’s friends became family, bringing jams and pies.
Trouble came in twos. Her mother fell ill. New worries distracted her from Paul. She brought her mother home. Sensing the end, her mother urged her to sell their house. Combined with the flat, they could buy something bigger.
Emily didn’t risk it—not with her mother ailing. She took a mortgage instead. Her mother died before they moved. Emily and her teenage daughter—now a beauty—settled into the new place.
She often reflected. Not a beauty, no suitors lining up, but married (technically). A bright, gorgeous daughter. A home, a job.
She saw Paul when clearing the old flat for sale. He looked rough. She didn’t ask his plans. Not her concern.
Years later, the singer appeared. Time hadn’t spared her either.
“Take him from the hospital. I’m leaving. He’s been drinking—fell on a construction site. Crutches now, not a wheelchair. They’re discharging him soon.”
“Over my dead body,” Emily muttered at the closed door.
Yet she went.
“Don’t think I’ll swoon over you now,” she saidShe took him home, not out of love, but because no one else would, and that, in the end, was enough.
