“What the hell are you doing on my laptop?” Alex loomed over Emily. She had never seen him like this before…
Emily came home from school and instantly smelled the heavy stench of stale beer in the hallway. A loud snore rumbled from the living room—Dad was drunk again. She marched straight to the kitchen.
Mum stood by the sink, peeling potatoes. Hearing footsteps, she turned. Emily’s sharp eyes caught the red, swollen mark on her cheek.
“Mum, let’s leave him. How much longer can we put up with this? He could kill you,” Emily spat, anger simmering.
“And go where? Who’d take us in? We can’t afford rent. Don’t worry, he won’t kill me. He’s a coward—only brave enough to swing at me.”
The next morning, Emily woke to strange noises. She tiptoed to the kitchen—Dad stood by the stove, gulping water straight from the kettle, head tilted back. She watched, mesmerised, as his Adam’s apple bobbed violently. *Please let him choke. Just choke.*
But he didn’t. He set the kettle down with a satisfied grunt, glared at her with bloodshot eyes, and lumbered past.
Emily shuddered at the thought of Mum refilling the kettle—unrinsed, still tainted with his spit. She scrubbed it furiously, swearing never to drink from it without washing it first.
During Christmas break, Emily’s class went on a trip to Edinburgh. When she returned, Mum was in hospital.
“Was it him?” she demanded, staring at the bandages.
“No, love. I slipped—black ice.”
But Emily knew she was lying.
Years of head injuries left Mum with sky-high blood pressure. Six months later, a stroke took her. Dad bawled at the funeral—one minute wailing over his “precious Sarah,” the next cursing her.
He snarled that Emily was just like her, threatening to kill her if she ever left. She barely made it to graduation, skipping prom, quietly collecting her diploma the next day. While he was at work, she packed up and ran.
Dad gave her grocery money—most of which she pocketed. Sometimes she even fished notes from his coat while he snored. Not much, but enough to survive. She’d long decided to flee, work, and study remotely.
She wasn’t afraid he’d look for her. The local PCs and neighbours knew his habits—no one would help him. She moved to London, rented a shabby but cheap flat on the outskirts, and got a job at Chicken Cottage. Free meals and help with her health card sealed the deal.
She enrolled in college for accounting. When Chicken Cottage found out, they bumped her to the till.
Boys tried chatting her up. “They’re all sweet at first, then they start drinking or cheating. Honestly, which is worse? Don’t trust their smooth talk, love. I was pretty once too. Your dad didn’t drink when we met. We were in love. Look how that turned out,” Mum used to say.
Emily took it to heart, brushing off every advance. She’d seen enough.
Mum always bulk-bought pasta, rice, tins—anything to last when Dad drank his wages. Now Emily did the same.
One evening, lugging heavy bags home, a guy texting ploughed into her.
“Sorry,” he muttered, finally looking up.
She meant to snap—*watch where you’re going*—but his warm smile disarmed her.
“My fault,” she said, grinning.
He offered to help. Hesitant, she handed over a bag. No one that open could be bad, right? Alex carried it effortlessly but didn’t push to see her flat.
Next day, he “randomly” wandered into Chicken Cottage. They started dating.
Alex was upfront—divorced, with a toddler he adored. He’d given his ex the flat and crashed with mates. “Just young and stupid. We had nothing in common—sometimes didn’t speak for days.”
But he doted on his daughter. *Anyone who loves kids can’t be all bad*, Emily thought. A month later, he suggested moving in together.
“Let’s get a proper place closer to town. Easier with two incomes.”
She agreed, floating on air. A real family at last. Their new flat was spacious. They celebrated quietly—no grand plans, no talk of weddings. But Alex often mused about kids: “Two—a boy and a girl.” Emily believed him.
He paid two months’ rent upfront. By month three, he sheepishly asked her to cover it.
“Ellie’s birthday presents, then child support…”
What was there to question? She paid without hesitation. Then it became routine—Ellie was sick, his parents needed help… *We’re family*, she told herself.
When she found out she was pregnant, she burst with the news. No sweeping her off his feet, no joyous spins—just a nod.
“I thought you’d be happy,” she said, stung.
“Just surprised. But I am.” He hugged her, and she melted.
The glow returned. But as weeks passed, no ring appeared. Then morning sickness hit. The smell of food turned her stomach. Alex had to cook.
“My ex never had this. Maybe something’s wrong with you?” he snapped once.
*His ex? What am I, then?*
“It’s different for everyone. It’ll pass,” she said, biting back tears.
It did—replaced by ravenous hunger. She ballooned, her clothes straining. When Alex spotted a new dress:
“Money’s tight, and you’re splurging?”
“I need clothes! Spent it all on Ellie again?”
“She’s my daughter. I’ll always put her first.”
“And me? Our baby?”
“I thought you understood.”
“Well, if Ellie’s everything, maybe this baby shouldn’t exist!”
She didn’t see it coming. A ringing explosion—her cheek aflame. Tears blurred her vision.
“Sorry, I lost control. Are you okay?” he babbled, prying her hand away.
*He hit me. Sober. Dad at least was drunk.*
He knelt, begging forgiveness, tears streaming. Against her better judgment, she stroked his hair. He lit up.
“Promise it won’t happen again.”
“Never,” he vowed, kissing her.
She forgave him. *My fault—I shouldn’t have threatened the baby. He lashed out in anger too.*
For weeks, he was tender. *He loves me. It’ll be different.*
As her due date neared, she opened his laptop to browse for prams. The prices horrified her. *Second-hand it is.* She went to shut it—then clicked a folder by mistake.
A girl filled the screen—young, laughing, tossing autumn leaves. Scroll. Same girl, smiling coyly.
*Who is this? His ex? She’d be older…*
*”He’s cheating. You know nothing. What if he left her? Does he even visit Ellie? Where are her photos?”* her mind hissed. The baby kicked, sensing her distress.
“Shh, little one. Daddy’ll explain,” she whispered, rubbing her belly.
The lock turned. She slammed the laptop, darting to the sofa. Alex walked in.
“Alright?” he asked, sensing tension.
“Fine. Bad dream.” Her eyes flicked to the laptop—still slightly open, the folder visible.
Alex followed her gaze.
“You went through my things?”
“Just pram shopping. Yours is faster—”
He lifted the lid. “Prams, eh?”
“I opened a folder by accident. I wasn’t snooping!”
*”Oh, he’ll buy that,”* her mind sneered.
“Who is she?”
“A colleague’s wife. He sent the wrong files.”
“Then why’s it saved? You’re lying!”
“Are you deaf?” he roared. “I just told you!”
He loomed over her, eyes blazing. She stumbled back.
*”Run. Now.”*
“I’ve met someone else. And it’s your fault. You were slim, sweet—not like the rest. Now look at you. A bloated cow.”
“It’s the pregnancy! I’ll lose—”
The slap cracked her skull against the wall. Darkness. Then his face, twisted with rage.
“Never touch my laptop again!” Spittle hit her cheeks.
She squeezed her eyes shut—suddenly remembering Dad guzzling from the kettle. That same sour stench.
Alex stepped back. She slid down, pain ripping through her abdomen. Gasping, she grabbed her belly.
“Disgusting,” he spat, storming off.
When the pain eased, she staggered to the hallway, snatched her bag (prenatal class advice: *always carry your notes*), and fled.
Another contraction bent her double. She bit back a scream, nausea rising. The neighbour answered her knock.
“Ambulance is coming,” the woman soothed. “Your husband’s fetching your things—such a caring man—”
*Husband?*
Alex knelt, oozing concern. She recoShe clutched her son in the hospital bassinet, whispering through tears, *”We’re free now,”* as the social worker handed her the keys to a shelter far from Alex’s shadow.
