“You’re a monster, Mum! People like you shouldn’t have children!”
Emily had been a promising student, but everything changed one night at a club in London where she met James—a handsome bloke whose parents were away on a year-long business trip abroad. She fell head over heels and soon moved into his flat.
They lived large, funded by his parents’ money—clubbing, hosting parties, living like there was no tomorrow. At first, Emily loved it. But before she knew it, she’d racked up debt and missed classes, failing her winter exams. She was on the verge of being kicked out.
She promised to buckle down and retake her tests. For a while, she actually studied, locking herself in the loo when James had friends over. She managed to scrape through her resits, then tried convincing him to grow up. He was in his final year—shouldn’t he focus on his degree?
“Come on, Em,” he’d say with a careless grin. “You only live once. When else are we supposed to have fun if not in our twenties?”
She was too ashamed to tell her mum she was living with a bloke without being married. Whenever she called home, she lied—said they’d tied the knot at the registry office, with a proper wedding planned when his parents returned.
One day, Emily felt dizzy during lectures, sick to her stomach. She checked her calendar—her heart dropped. A pregnancy test confirmed her fear.
When she told James, he pressured her to get an abortion. They had their first real blowout, and he vanished for two days. She cried herself sick waiting for him. When he finally returned, he wasn’t alone—a wasted blonde clung to his arm, barely standing. Exhausted and furious, Emily shouted at him, tried shoving the girl out.
“She’s not going anywhere. If you don’t like it, *you* can piss off, you mad cow!” he snarled—then slapped her hard across the face.
She grabbed her coat and ran. Walked all the way to her old uni halls, face swollen, mascara streaked. The porter took pity and let her in.
The next day, James came begging forgiveness, swearing he’d never touch her again. She believed him—for the baby’s sake.
Somehow, she scraped through her first year. Too terrified to go home—what would her mum say? But staying in London was just as bad. James’ parents would be back soon, and she was showing, looking a wreck.
When his parents returned, his father took one look at Emily—provincial, barely passing—and cut to the chase. He offered her money to disappear.
“Be realistic, love. What kind of father would he be? All he cares about is parties. And who’s to say it’s even his? Take the cash, go home to your family. Trust me, it’s for the best.”
Humiliated, Emily refused—though later, she wished she hadn’t. James stayed silent. She packed up and fled to her mum’s.
The second her mother saw her bump in the doorway, she knew.
“Where’s your husband, then?” she snapped, blocking the hall. “Let me guess—he had his fun and dumped you? Did he at least give you money?”
“Mum, how can you—? I don’t want his money.”
“Then why come crawling back? We could barely afford this place just us two. I thought you’d landed a posh Londoner, living the high life. Instead, you turn up knocked up. Where d’you expect us to fit? Four of us now—five, soon!”
“Four?” Emily’s voice faltered.
“While you were off galivanting, *I* found someone. What? I’m not dead yet. Raised you alone, never had a life. Now it’s my turn. He’s younger. Don’t want him gawping at you.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” Emily whispered, tears choking her.
“Back to your *husband*. He knocked you up—let him deal with it.”
Her mother stood cold, unmoved. No warmth, no pity. They’d never been close, but now it was like talking to a stranger.
Emily took her bag and left. Sat on a bench down the street and sobbed. Where could she go? If her own mother didn’t care, who would? For a wild moment, she thought of stepping in front of a lorry—but the baby kicked, as if pleading. She couldn’t do it.
“Emily?”
She looked up—blurred by tears—to see a familiar face.
“It’s me, Sophie. From school. Why are you—?” Then she spotted the bump. “You’re pregnant?”
The story poured out between sobs.
“Come stay with me,” Sophie said firmly. “Parents are at the countryside house till autumn. You can’t sleep on the streets.”
Emily had no choice. Her legs shook with exhaustion, her stomach growled.
Sophie’s flat was cosy. “Make yourself at home,” she said as Emily collapsed on the sofa.
Over tea, Sophie explained she was training as a nurse. “Heard you were at uni in London?”
“*Was*,” Emily murmured, closing her eyes.
Two days later, Sophie rushed in, excited. “There’s an elderly woman at the hospital—stroke victim, bedridden but sharp. Her daughter refuses to take her in. *Three kids*, she claims, *no space*. Wants someone to care for her. I thought of you.”
“Did you tell her I’m due soon?”
“No. But no one else will do it. Just—tuck your bump in. She’ll take you.”
“How? I can’t lift her, change her—”
“I’ll teach you. And I’ll help. Em, it’s a roof over your head.”
Terrified but desperate, Emily agreed.
The daughter—a sour-faced woman in a garish tracksuit—barely glanced at Emily. “Pregnant? You’ll manage?”
Sophie cut in. “She will. I’ll help. She’s got nowhere else.”
“Fine. But don’t expect the flat. No wages either—just her pension for expenses. Call only if it’s serious.” She tossed down a card and left.
The old woman—Margaret—watched Emily’s belly with watery eyes.
“I’ll manage,” Emily said firmly.
And she did.
When labour hit, Sophie took over. Emily gave birth to a girl—Lily.
Back home, she juggled a crying baby and a mute old woman. One day, rushing from the kitchen, she found Margaret humming—Lily asleep beside her.
After that, Margaret helped. Lily dozed to her sounds, freeing Emily’s hands.
Time passed. Lily took her first steps; Margaret faded. One morning, she didn’t wake up.
The daughter came for the funeral, then snapped, “Pack your things. The flat’s being sold.”
“Can’t I stay until—?”
“Not my problem.”
While clearing Margaret’s things, the daughter found a will—the flat was Emily’s. She screeched, accused Emily of forgery, threatened court.
Sophie stepped in. “Margaret called a solicitor. Witnesses saw it. No judge will throw out a mother and child.”
She was right. Emily kept the flat. Lily started nursery; Emily took a receptionist job, picked up shifts as a carer.
Just as life steadied, her mother reappeared—sobbing on the doorstep. Said she’d sold her flat for a surgery. Could she stay?
Emily relented. She was still her mum.
One sunny day, out with Lily and Sophie, Emily realised she’d forgotten her phone. “What if Mum needs me?”
She ran back—and overheard her mother on the phone:
*”They’re out… No, I’m saving. Almost there… Me? Oh, I play the invalid brilliantly… Stomach? Just padding…”*
“Mum!”
Her mother whirled, guilty.
“You *lied*? No surgery? You’re *renting* your flat to fund some *man*? After throwing me out pregnant? You’re a *monster*!”
“You misunderstood—”
“Pack your things. Be gone by the time I’m back.”
She stormed out.
Sophie took one look at her face and didn’t ask.
Later, Emily’s mother was gone.
Hatred breeds hatred. If a mother won’t love her child, what love can she expect in return?
Her mother returned to her flat. The lover left when the money dried up. Years later, when she fell ill, Emily cared for her—to the end.
